Long Weekend

A short poem about you, leaving, and how we never have enough time.

It's Thursday again

when I see you by the side of the street.

You have needles in your veins, like before
pushing against your skin.
You ask me for a ride home.
I look at you, swaying in the breeze
and I don't say no.

It's Friday, somewhere.
Not here, but you're standing at the top of the station steps
holding your red suitcase
like it never even left your hand.
You're sorry for not staying longer
and thankful for my hospitality.
There are other things, too
but you don't say them.

It's not Saturday.
It should be, but you are not here.
You are not anywhere anymore
but across the street in the churchyard
saying you love me and asking for a ride home
and I stand on the sidewalk waiting for you to come back.
I will never get used to watching you walk away.

Author's Note

This is the first piece of writing I've ever posted, so it would be great if you could give me a few pointers on how to improve!

Reviews

[John the Baptist]

You should have posted more. I like this one very much. We learn quickly that the subject of the poem leads a troubled life; no one with needles in his veins is happy. This image does not appear again, but in verse two we see the person departing and we get the impression that he/she is not a very reliable companion, leaving, maybe prematurely, without saying things the speaker needs to hear. The last verse indicates the individual is no longer with us, and the speaker is reminiscing about what might have been and feeling pain about what wasn't. A lot of poignant feeling conveyed in these spare words.

[Davidgeo]

It's not too shabby.

Find your own pointers on how to improve. Poetry is a personal thing, if you let other people "show" you how to get better you lose a little bit of yourself.