by Karlo Krstulovic
Heavy footfalls pound against a wooden staircase,
drums of war echoing against the walls.
The thundering sounds shake the foundations below my feet.
Remembering a time when the thunder was simple and sweet.
A rainbow comes after heavy rain,
but what if the downpour beats against a body,
more pain.
Lush, beautiful and full of life,
once a thriving ecosystem now ripped apart and maimed.
Tears flow down cheeks they have not seen in years,
young and bright-eyed baby sputtering sounds that cut silence like spears.
Once the thundering echo rocked a crib that apartment walls stifled, disappearing
into sounds of distant euphoric bliss.
A toilet flushing and a baby crying,
yelling of two cocks fighting both wanting to be on top.
Making love, a sacred art treasured.
Heavy footfalls against wood measured
with anger of a long day toiled and worked.
Here there is a sole horse rider,
I remain, a silent spider,
webs etched into the shadows of my own home.
Forking over what remains of myself to the whipping winds that scrape trees against my window.
Call it love to lessen the blow,
my body roars with purple and blue,
only the words echo
Why can’t you see, I love you!
Screeching tires outside once the deed is done,
flying down the runway that makes the street outside home.
Off into the night to drink and be alone
a few moments of respite for my body to atone.
Sins committed against my temple,
the house creaks with a heavy groan.
Or was that me?
Karlo Krstulovic is a student at LaGuardia majoring in Creative Writing. They play Dungeons and Dragons in their spare time. They also write prose, non-fiction and have written a few screenplays during their residency at LaGuardia. “Why Can’t You See That I Love You?” is a co-winner of the 2025 The Lit LGBTQIA+ Poetry Award.
Photo, “Crash!” by Conanil (CC) BY 2.0.
