I forgot... or as the French would have it. J'ai oublié

How we take love for granted.

                             I Forgot.

 

I forgot the little gestures of love. The arm across my chest, fingers

curling my hair... the sweet pout the furtive whispers.

I forgot the tittering at simple words, your bowed head,

eyes raised, with a  loving glance.

Your skin so fair...on mine.

 

I forgot when you busied and buzzed round our tiny kitchen,

laying upon me, dishes of my favourite fare.

I forgot how you soothed my ailments in times not

so good, and kept me from despair.

 

I forgot those times you stood strong

buried the bad words

never complaining

always there.

 

I forgot those times

I remembered too late.

Now you’ve gone

 I sit in darkness

 never

 to

 awake.

 

Reviews

[Taylor]

Thoroughly enjoyed this. The diction paints a vivid image without sounding trite. As the poem descends into a loss of words and structure, it strengthens my thoughts of a man who has, only now, begun to understand what he has lost. Wonderfully written and look forward to more as I read some of your earlier pieces.

[Gee]

Nice Alan,I'm going for she upped sticks and left,which means microwave meals an ever growing floordrobe and an ever roving eye!!!!

[Alan Corbett]

You may be wandering if she dies or leaves him...choose.

[Jennie Baron]

Excellent! You capture so well examples of those simple, memorable intimate moments that love is made of. I found myself wondering whether the love affair broke up or whether they were separated by death, but then I suppose it makes little difference in terms of the grief. I like this poem a lot, Alan.