Soon, you said

 

‘Soon’, you said, but soon never came.

It died in the next day’s dust.

‘Soon,’ you said, ‘I’ll get better’.

‘Soon’, you said, and soon did come.

Like a tornado levelling towns down.

‘Soon,’ you said, ‘I’ll show you my heart’.

‘Soon’, you said. It meant all, and naught.

You knew we would never meet again,

but keep each other where we keep secrets,

where truths streak like lightning bolts,

outbursts of brilliance in the night sky.

‘Soon’, you said. But the rain came first.

Summer and snow followed suit.

Seasons passed sooner than your ‘soon’.

And years later, like a remanent déjà vu,

soon happened, for you casually forgot.

‘Soon is an aurora in broad daylight,’ you said.

Except it wasn’t. I lived for that soon

like others pray to an invisible god.

Soon is a strip of land on the horizon,

soon is a shaft of sun through the clouds.

Yet this is what you meant all along.

I read what my heart yearned for,

not what yours couldn’t possibly give.

That ‘soon’ you said was a memory

etched on the wind of your breath,

a whispered reminder to hold on

or to let go, for this ‘soon’

you’ve now placed it in my hands.