Lying apart now, each in a separate bed,
He with a book, keeping the light on late,
She like a girl dreaming of childhood,
All men elsewhere - it is as if they wait
Some new event: the book he holds unread,
Her eyes fixed on the shadows overhead.
Tossed up like flotsam from a former passion,
How cool they lie. They hardly ever touch,
Or if they do it is like a confession
Of having little feeling - or too much.
Chastity faces them, a destination
For which their whole lives were a preparation.
Strangely apart, yet strangely close together,
Silence between them like a thread to hold
And not wind in. And time itself's a feather
Touching them gently. Do they know they're old,
These two who are my father and my mother
Whose fire from which I came, has now grown cold?
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Comments2I always felt a certain sadness when reading "Strangely apart, yet strangely close together". I read this back when I was younger, too. What do people think these two people are actually feeling?
Not too impressed with this one, kinda brought me down. It's a bit too sad and not what I typically enjoy in a poem. Feelings of lost love? Guess I just can't relate. 😔👎💔