‘Catch a falling star,' you say.

‘Catch a falling star,' you say. (6th Dec 2008, 6.38pm)

Night is hesitant,
waiting at the window
beside your face,
echoing your call to come and play;
‘Come out, come out,
wherever you are
and catch a falling star,’
you say,
but instead, I sit here
and let my dreams get in the way.

We were children once,
of course we were,
thinking we were so grown up
before adulthood and cars,
and work and sex and time
sped up, and operation scars.

Television is turned up,
louder than your outside voice,
and your breath glazes
the glass as you ask again,
‘Come out, don’t spoil this;
we’ve come so far!
Isn’t it just pain?’
Then call my name
as if
we were innocent, again.

We were children once,
no known difference
between reality and dream,
and consequences didn’t mean
tears from parents whose
point of view smoke-screened.

Catch a falling star,
you say?
I did once, and I was disgraced,
and made to feel ashamed,
I aged, I joined the rat-race
I learnt to drive, had sex,
did all the things you can’t…
I cannot play your game.
I glance, but the child at the glass
has gone away.