Felix De Clercq: Blackbird on a shoulder

We had been outside that time, our heads sunk deep into our collars. We had not spoken, or in any case not in the way we used to do: ingesting scaffolding with which to support ourselves, prop ourselves up when needed. Now we were worlds away from that. Our hands thrust deep into our pockets, foreheads numbed by the cold and the rain. We had taken our leave briefly, softly nodding for a final time with few words. 

We knew: each of us is going our own way. 

I should have run after you, dodging the puddles, or better still: charging straight through them. I should have gripped you by the arm, held onto your upper arm and told you how much I had to say to you but couldn’t find the words, and I should have asked you if you wanted to wait with me until she came, but I looked over my shoulder and saw that you had disappeared. I closed my eyes, because I thought I would then be able to hear you, your shoes on the wet stones. The city was quiet and I hoped you would hesitate for a moment before continuing, but I knew: each of us is going our own way. 

Text fragment by Angelo Tijssens