They put up new streetlights
in a neighbouring street, those that seem
to imitate moonlight, and I have to say,
it is kind of scary.
Now the street has the lighting
of a gloomy film noir,
where faint white light
accentuates all those dark recesses,
and you scream ‘Fool’ in your head
when some irrelevant character
saunters down the road, merrily whistling.
A true city girl, I don’t do
moonlight unless it is in
a romantic setting.
My favourite defence mechanism
is hiding behind your shield of
extroversion.
Thanks, Darling. I appreciate it.
I look at the trail
our footsteps left
in the sand, and think,
any scout worth his money
would surely know
everything about us.
Your long strides,
so forceful, and steady,
focused on your destination,
rarely straying
from your chosen path.
In such stark contrast
to my chaotic tracks.
Always two steps
where you need one,
dancing from left to right,
stopping here and there
for another object
of distraction,
finally running
in an effort to keep up.
The flow of your dissatisfaction
at being single meanders
through your sentences,
staining them with the cold blues
of an angry sea.
But memory is a highway,
and we all take different exits.
My only peripherally involved
mind remembers all too clearly
what yours wants to suppress.
They are all there,
at your disposal
if you would accept them.
The memories of
those countless nights
you showed up at my door,
so ready to drown your misery
in a bottle of wine.
The many times I covered you,
and your pain with a blanket
after you fell asleep
on my couch.
Mostly I recall your eyes,
and this frightening emptiness
that seemed to have
burnt itself onto your retinas.
Do you not see that you
always were at your loneliest
whenever you were
in one of your relationships?
Read up on proxemics, stranger,
my amygdala just had a fit.
There is a clearly defined
area you should not invade,
it is called personal space.
We are not in an elevator,
yet you are mere millimetres
from having to marry me.
So back off,
you are standing
too close.
Black ink on heavy,
cream coloured paper
should have made for
a beautiful love letter.
Unfortunately my hand refused
to create the calligraphy
my idea of beauty required.
Perfectionism is a curse.
I texted you.
Love didn’t mind.
Tiny wafts of bliss
drift from my mug.
If I told you that
happiness
smells like
cinnamon and vanilla,
would you believe me?
Your voice is purest silk,
wrapping soft, glossy
tendrils around the left side
of my brain,
expertly cutting me off
from logical thought.
november child 