You hold the promise
of an evening sky,
colourful with
the obligatory spots
of darkness.
For reasons of
self-preservation
my curious mind
is not allowed
to solve yet another
intriguing puzzle.
Gone are the days
when I considered it
a lofty purpose
to fix problems
I did not create.
My winter heart has
accumulated too many
bruises to rise to
the bait of curing
another soul.
Sometimes, from a safe distance,
I stare at my frozen lake
of situations
I refuse to address.
If I squint, I can still
make out their distorted shapes
beneath layers of
vain endeavours and
wasted opportunities.
I wonder, how long
will I be able to maintain
the harsh environment
that traps them
in their taciturn suspense?
You were the inventor of the art of
rebelling against your privileges
while driving a Beemer.
You wore your contradictions
unapologetically, and in style,
leaving me incredulous, and
more than a bit breathless.
California sun in your eyes,
a grin to die for, easygoing
to the point of carelessness.
How I wish our insurgencies
had been better timed.
I kept the necklace you gave me,
and this nagging uncertainty
in my heart.
I falter
I waver, and wait
I think, rethink, and overthink
But you,
and your cursed impatience
may not simply run over
my hesitation
like a bulldozer on steroids.
You,
and your bloody self-assurance
may not simply sweep over
my cautiousness
like an out-of-control wildfire.
I do not know
if this comes as a revelation,
but I do make decisions very fast
when pushed too far.
too many marks and bruises
on alabaster skin
branded by the touch of those
that still linger on your fingertips
afraid of the next tell-tale sign
to blow up what is left of her pride
running out of patience,
and from a place in hell
where secrecy is only
a figment of your imagination
iPhone pillow talks,
instagratification,
how long does your thrill last?
until you have emptied
your bottle of Bushmills?
until whoever’s make-up is smeared?
when reality is breathing down
your neck?
or rather
when you wake up alone, again…
only five hours to Paris
whispers of the Seine
balm for her soul
you know who is waiting for her
celui qui danse
au rhytme d’un cœur fragile
she took your car by the way
was it worth it?
Remember all those cute promises
and good intentions?
And yet here we are,
standing on the edge
of a precipice once again.
Counting sleepless nights,
shed tears, and wasted efforts,
only to realise the balance
will never add up.
Doubt sets in frequently,
demanding a review of
decisions made.
Hindsight reveals the truth
it so loves to conceal during
those moments when it is
actually needed.
Reminding with a mocking smirk
that one might have been
more open-minded about
things second-guessed, and
more wary of concepts
blindly taken for granted.
november child 