• Kristiana Roemer

Still Here

Updated: Jan 21, 2018

Still here. Recalling the sun burning down the fire escape where I’d sit, read and sip my coffee. See your face through the glass writing that masterpiece you so vividly long to encase while my own mind is chasing towards its own grounded space.

Still here. Beneath a hollow thud of quiet amplitude. It’s deafening, remembering a world in which I believed I wandered only days before upon arriving at your door. You took me in into a home you already owned and life began to show me things between the pages of your spirit. Life’s little cravings and belongings hidden among the artefacts of the room which I longed to inherit and silently melted into.

Yet, still here. Gravely, mourning the baby so precious you pushed off the edge into nothingness. In its absence I still hear its screams and cries filled with heartaches and smiles from that moment in time when the tip of the vine it climbed  was cut down. But, very likely, that baby was only mine.

Still here. Vaguely, I feel the force of a source far off or merely a hint of what it was for it is lessening with the tide. A moment in time I am to greet with gratitude but it is threatening to leave me. Has it already? There’s a vicious solitude crawling all around these new walls. Once a pond of healthy soil from which the seed’s been ripped out, it is now smothering in a moor of bland acid. I was unprepared for the drought now to face  where your edged voice continuously calls and is reverberating from inside these damp halls. ‘Enjoy it while it lasted’ is something I well know. We had something created. Now I’m stuck in the heat. Holding just a faint trace of a world from days ago.

Still here — yet I refuse to forget. The sun was just rising from behind your head, letting its rays of fine thread slither past the left side of your chin and lace my thoughts with cohesiveness, its incisive needles puncturing into my skin and thawing upon the bed spread we created for ourselves…

We were two seagulls found on a burning cliff to mate for the season and take this moment once and for all before they depart. The female inhaled all the air that she believed she could hold in her heart for she knew this may well be a brisk piece of fine art which beyond this one day might keep them still here together in the fold each, one tear apart.


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My reflections are moving in nearer as I stand here in my house of mirrors. Some are chipped, some need dusting. Some are polished to a shine, crystal-clear. Some are obvious, some are deceiving. But