The Echo returns not

It’s a cold December afternoon, Four-thirty, and already dusk is upon us. We walk side by side, like since forever, Up the slight incline that takes us to the top of the road, Shoes scuffling on the tarmac pavement. Our voices chatter excitedly about the end of term and Christmas, Each a sentient echo to the other. Jokes, debates, and questions whizz around the air, A zephyr of amity. The streetlamps turn on suddenly, Bright orange sodium bulbs of fire— Fire that advances so slowly, Like a curtain being drawn closed At the end of the final scene. Slowly, things began to change. I no longer waited in the mornings, And you, after school. Oblivious, two pairs of squeaking shoes become one, And we stopped being each other’s echo. Looking back, I cannot explain why I didn’t do more, Why I didn’t say more, Except maybe I was too selfish. It’s a cold December night; The bleak winter darkness seems to have swallowed the world, With not a crumb left. I sit here, not because I love long nights, But because I find it hard to dissolve my loneliness in daylight, Because no matter how much I write in these pages, I cannot keep you a moment longer. Time has passed, and you have gone, Like a popped balloon whose air returns to the vast world alone, With no chance to meet again. So let this poem be just a tribute to us: Look at the butterfly, how it shakily flies, Drifting beneath sunlit skies In this cold season. Look at the crescent moon, How it steals the daytime bloom And hides it in a starry tomb. Listen to the autumn leaves, How they whisper mournfully as the wind flees, A tale of time that painfully grieves. Listen to the winter snow, How it comes and it goes, How it hides the sobbing beneath its glow. I call out again, but this time, The only thing that meets my ears Is my own voice. Nevertheless I hope somewhere, you will hear me and remember Us.