London Stanstead always looks so gloomy early in the morning.
Of all the journeys I have done in the past years,
Of all the arrivals of all the departures,
Stanstead still keeps the great majority of them
And of my wild, scattered, unusual, bouncing emotions.
And today, travelling to face again the illusions of the summer,
Recollecting that lake and that love so quickly consumed,
Much before being understood.
The smiles across the lift and the corridors,
The nights swallowing the lake and its lights,
The days reinventing that image of me
Through butterflies in the stomach
And the excitement of something fresh
Which was asking nothing of me yet.
And today, months have passed,
And my heart feels old and tired, once again.
I will wait for the illusion to make its appearance
At the train station today,
While still holding memories
Of a past long gone, when my prince arrived and I was kissing him,
In London Stanstead that time.
And I will wait for the illusion of the summer
To cast a spell on me again,
Not to indulge in thinking of he whose lips will never be mine
And indeed, to remember my dreams of an adult love
With he who the lake made so precious.
And they were just dreams,
Of a different, mature me, living without words,
Living without expressions,
Being for him his very personalised emotion,
The sweetest definition of me.
It seems a long time ago, that summer.
And now I need to go, leave him and poisoning dreams away,
I need to pretend to be someone I am not,
To save the day, to be an adult.
And then go, stop looking back
at an unfulfilled past
which is meaningful for me and for me only,
stop looking past only because someone is potentially
another beautiful soul
for whom my love went bad.
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