You said I’ll miss the light
when I leave here
this place
where we’d begun
always lit by the sun
as if the gods were still children
who invited us to play
in their daylight.
You know this because you returned
to the light you missed,
rolled the blinds
as though they were yours
and we’d frolic in bliss.
I relished the movement,
the way the room unfolded
to the world and let us in
again, through the seasons
we’d spin
as if there could be no end.
But the gods have put their toys away
pop-up books and all
and you no longer return
to raise the blinds.
Though I am still here
in the creases
you were right
it is the light that I miss.
This is a reprint of work originally published in Decades Review.
Loukia M. Janavaras is from Minneapolis, MN and currently resides in Athens, Greece. Her poem ‘White’ was published in J.D. Vine Publications’ The Creative Writer in 2008 and in 2010 she received an Honourable Mention in the Writer’s Digest 79th Annual Writing Competition for ‘The Neighbour’ in the Memoirs/Personal Essay category.
