I remember the day we met
you stood before me, above me,
sundress whispering, the wind blowing arches among
emerald leaves and mossy swirls
swaying into the chilled afternoon zephyr,
the faintest accent of freshness
lingering on a sunlit beach, in a sunburnt land.
Your hair long and braided, golden,
you breathed lightly, strong and lean,
your gaze was gentle, your lips mean,
raspberry cardigan, blueberry eyes,
the smell of green tea,
guitar case at your side
you reached out your calloused hand
took three irrevocable steps across the lonely sand.
I must’ve aired the expression of terror
as the news of your appearance crossed my face;
white starch shirt a crumpled piece of paper
blowing shakily into the ocean’s endless hue
I sat before that humid summer afternoon.
Sweat glistening, dripping constellations
and diamonds on my skin,
a simple lunch break, a cup of coffee
turned into the beginning of a story
I’ll reconstruct and remember
till there’s nothing to say,
until my very last day.
I retrace my steps now
back to that hazy moment, frozen in time,
sealed in a nostalgic amber which smoothly and gently
rests heavy in my turbulent mind.
I see the strings of fate
leading to the ending of this arc
stitched into the sky, your face, the ground,
hinting of all that is to come.
In your eyes I see the seas
we sailed across in borrowed boats,
in stolen party yachts
to brand new cities
to vintage boulevards
down which we ran, hand in hand,
on a race away from the mundane,
the ordinary, and the tame.
In the trees the light refracts
the same way it shone each Sunday morning
when we went grocery shopping;
you grabbed the milk, I chose the eggs,
who knew one day
that store would never feel the same?
In your hands I see the palms
that held my face in long nights
through which I prayed and begged,
and the hands whose touch soon turned into pain,
hostile and arcane.
The memory lingers a mirage,
a projection on a soft silk screen
that hangs all around everything I see;
in my coffee, in my shirt,
in the clouds, in dusty dirt,
I want to grab a knife and cut this canvas
but every time I try to
I just see you, your face,
and that wretched summer day –
I wonder if I will ever be the same.
Please, take me back to that first day.
ekaterina khakimullina (she/they) is a young poet born in russia but currently living in perth, western australia. she loves all things literature and exploring the human condition, finding inspiration in the mundane and ordinary.
