This Was Your Room

[J Hillenburg]

(poem about my first love...)

This Was Your Room



This was your room.

It faced a well paved street,

gave you a panoramic view of the cut grass

of identically groomed lawns.

The bathroom was down the hall,

your mother’s bedroom was further.

Suddenly I am startled to notice

how well I remember your home

after years of absence.


This was your room.

Your bed was small, insecure, not built for two.

I remember well.

From grabbing its headboard as we had sex,

from breaking its legs as we had sex.

You told me of how your mother made you

sleep on the floor in punishment

for crippling such a fine bed.

You were such a vixen, I remember well.


This was your room.

Often its door was closed.

Often others were shut out.

Your smell clings to me still,

and drives the more worthy way.

I consumed you, but in the end

all appetite remained with me.

To eat your bacon and eggs,

your grilled cheese sandwiches,

and drink your Mother’s beer.

To play with your brother and sister,

bribe him with promises so I could make

love to you quickly,

and long forever for you once and ever again.


This was your room.

Your computer held my interest

when your body failed to.

I played Mahjongg until you gave up

on loving me again.

You allowed me to read things I should have never seen,

the private jottings of your secret heart

with the drama attending it.

Wrapped within your auburn hair

as summer and spring ran over me,

as one so in love never so truly again.


This was your room,

with its window,

with its fine crippled bed,

its closed door,

with its bathroom door the hall

and your mother’s bedroom even further.

With its grilled cheese sandwiches,

and computer Mahjongg,

with its private jottings of your secret heart

and all of the drama attending it.

And me finally wondering if you are in your room,

if you lie on your bed the same way,

if you make bacon and eggs for your lover,

if you write stories about him,

if you idealize him as much as I have

idealized you.

Fresh blows the wind outside my window;

empty and waste the sea.


So the room that was yours,

let it always be claimed in that way.

You’ll forever look from its window

and close its door.

Your name will always be Isolde,

and I will always be Tristan,

and you will never come back to me in time.


So the room that was yours,

I will always remember it.

I will not dispute your image any longer

or the dreams it may bring.

I will allow your haunting, giving your ghost

all providence,

desolate and sick with longing.

I will allow surfs of memory to crest

where otherwise they could not rest.

This was your room.

I will now leave you to it,

and will show to you

that I have learned now how to say

goodbye.

[lizzytysh]

Hi J ~

It's great to see a resurgence of people from the past here. Welcome back !

I like very much the way you successfully take us back in time through your mind and memories of the sweetness of these days. You capture the specialness of it all very well.

~ Lizzy

[LaurieAK]

Hi J~

This is my favorite of the bunch you posted.

I love the way it builds in content. Reminds me of the children's story "The House That Jack Built."

Your poem really captures those things that are exclusively products of youth...of first times. And the 'mythology' that they become with distance of time.

Regards,
Laurie