The Rushing Roadside | A Collection of Poems by Olivia Chen
The Roadside of 3AM:
Tonight I decided In a whim To sit by the roadside of 3am Had you asked me to stay, By entreaty or By demand; Even a casual mention - Would have saved me from being astray. Had you been more stubborn, Insistent or Persistent, In accompanying me - I would have conceded, and the result would've been Us sitting by the road together, Taciturn. Counterfactuals - 'This and that would have been' Express only regret. The roadside of 3am allows no regrets, For it was cold and quiet 'Cept for the occasional rumble of a passing vehicle Which was my freind Who vibrations I felt intimately Along my numbed legs. Countless streetlights, Flickering stars, Parlour and living room lights Entertain my eyes, Coldly. The Body numbs. I am glad The roadside of 3am allows no regrets, For I do not regret Rejecting your company, Refusing your chance to grow numb with me In he cold, In taciturnity. Tonight I realised, I am scared to be anyone's somebody, Though I nevertheless desire To be your somebody. In choosing the roadside of 3am, I chose to be not so cruel As to burden you With a somebody. The stars and the passing cars fear no burden, Nor responsibility, For my wretchedness.
Rushing
Breath
I said,
Breathe.
The heart thumps;
Blood Vessels run up the head -
Thump thump.
Hands quivering and feet cold,
Vision unable to spell confusion.
The gap gasps
Irony.
Time is slipping, flying, running, fading,
I say.
I watch it escape on wafts of air my lungs cannot capture.
There is tomorrow,
I know,
But tomorrow is owned by something else and also departing
At the same pace.
I say,
I am looking for something –
Can you guide me?
But one cannot look for what one does not know,
Or so says Socrates and Meno.
And nor can one solve a problem one cannot define.
So I don’t speak,
Anymore.
But pull me out,
I scream.
I plead.
I whine.
I don’t need a solution,
But only a salvation,
An escape.
Free me.
Things rushing towards me,
Like a river;
Like tides;
Like torrents.
Flooding over me,
Suffocating.
A stream of fragments; sharp; into the blood vessels.
I do not dodge.
They always reach the head.
Sometimes the sun kisses warmly the cheeks,
Or the bed cushions softly the tottering spine;
Yet in the back of my head,
Rushing.
Swoosh; swirl.
Dipping in and out of the waters,
My head.
Remember that man,
Not waving but drowning.
But who remembers one,
Who had no idea,
Whether she waved
Before she drowned.
Written by Olivia Chen | Illustrated by Victoria Hoover
