Nature Morte

 

The quietness after everyone left

Seemed to echo louder

Than any silence I had heard before

Even the fly in the room

Seemed to feel bad for daring to hum

 

I remember standing alone

I could feel every part of me

Acutely aware of the tiniest tIngle of life

Slight itch on the end of my nose

That darned ache in my big toe

 

The roar of traffic in the distance

Muffled by the single glazed eye in the room

Kept me vaguely connected to the outside world

Not enough to shatter my sense of isolation

But just enough to remind me

I could leave this space

And lose myself among the click clac of the crowds

 

I needed to stay

How could I leave without you?

I continued to drink in the scene

It was all a bit blurred

The table; cluttered with food

That no one had eaten

Had become a water coloured mess

Streaming down the page

Colours melding together in splotches of mud

 

The sofa empty

Left dishevelled from our last guests

I couldn’t bring myself to throw the pile of magazines

So there they were neatly stacked

Just as you had left them

Well thumbed pages wearing little brightly coloured stick it notes

To remind you where to find

The most interesting facts

 

And there

In pride of place

Your guitar

Spotlighted by the stream

Of the watery winter sun

Pouring into the room

 

Dust particles

Dancing in the air

It was as though you were there

You were playing one of your tunes

Or perhaps that Dylan track

You know the one!

 

I always hated that French phrase

What do they call it?

You know!

The phrase for still life!

Nature Morte!

 

I never understood why

They called it

Dead nature

I much prefer

Still life

 

But now

As I stand here

And survey the scene

I suddenly understand

Exactly what they mean. 

C.K.23