Sunset Soliloquies

A poem wanted to know

What the sunset makes me feel

What the orange ink speaks to me of.

If it stains me with nostalgia’s lavender

Or melancholy’s blue.

It was clichéd

But I wondered anyway.

And I didn’t know

I honestly did not.

I looked and looked and tried to see

But there was just so much

And my eyes so small

Can never take all of it in.

Maybe it is too much anyway.

It is like apaixonar, perhaps

A single moment, but never one you can point at.

Or Banjara, a different kind of nomad

Roots everywhere, home nowhere

Like gypsies riding a Catherine Wheel.

I’ve never been to the sea

Sometimes the sunset tells the nemophilist in me about it.

But feel? I don’t know.

It is trouvaille, I suppose, a lovely windfall.

And retrouvaille, the wait always worth it.

A dull, constant entity

Like the ache in my being.

It always does invoke toska, though

Brings it out, hammers it home

My perpetual longing for nothing

Adding to the atlas’s weight on my chest.