Friday, February 19, 2016


You remember that day, don’t you?
The day we sat in your car,
Under a young tree, a sapling still,
In the rain, merely a drizzle, merely an excuse stalling the walk home.
We talked and talked around the bushes and talked around the elephants,
Then there were the lapses of silences, the pregnant pauses.

I remember tracing the line the drops of rain left behind with my eyes,
Following the raindrops racing across the windscreen, across the sunshade you had opened for me,
Pressing my open palm against the cool glass above me, watching the rain fall onto me but never touching me,
And you watching me, wanting but never touching me,
Watching my eyes wide with wonder, my bare neck and its skin so thin you could break blood with a nip of your teeth,
Watching the hollow of my neck, the mountains and the valleys, rising and falling with each of my breath.

I remember tracing the line your drops of tears left behind with my eyes,
Following the teardrops down your cheek, deep into the heart you had opened for me,
Pressing my open palm against the hollow of your chest and its empty caverns you beg me to fill,
Rising and falling with each of your breath.

I watch the raindrops chase each other, melt into each other and disappear,
I imagine they are a puddle of happiness now.
I watch the raindrops, too heavy and running too fast, and I watch as a small droplet breaks away and is left behind, while the rest race across the windscreen and they too, disappear.
I imagine they are like us now.
But which one of us is left behind?

You say it is me, who have run back into my childhood home,
Already burnt to the ground, only mountains of grey ash and a blackened framework left,
And reignited the fire.
But you must know, mustn’t you?
That I did not reignite it, that the flames never died, never even dimmed.

I had only ran and ran so far that I could see no spark of its burning fire,
And locked myself in the darkest of places,
Stubborn, disillusioned.
And you were a candle, burning yourself to soft white wax for me,
But with time, the soft white wax too, cooled and hardened.
You do not understand that it took courage to walk into fire, to save my soul trapped in a burning house.

And I say it is you who is left behind,
It is you who is lost, it is you who is wasting your own youth,
And you know its truth.

Some days I walk into my sister’s room,
And the scent of her absinthe hand cream stops me at the door and sways me from the ground I stand on. 
I remember your shoulder and your neck and all your secret spaces that I had hidden my face in,
And the very same scent that clings to your skin, sharp and sudden like nostalgia, sweet and spirited like memory.

//the shower is indeed the incubator of all things wondrous hahahah - and you, if you are reading this, yes, my train of thoughts started with you but it has since derailed far from its tracks - this is neither about you nor me - merely a fragment of what could have been or what might have been - ah, life, what a wondrous thing.

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