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?
I have become more translucent
the moment I got together with you,
fading out of substance,
and into an undefined background.
I have to look harder now
to see myself when I look
into the mirror to search
for the woman
I find more difficult
to remember on a daily basis.
How surreal she seems,
the bold one
who danced without restraint,
questioned nothing and everything,
and was dangerously free.
So many of your
carefully cultivated talents
seem to unfailingly aim
directly at my soft spots.
It is a rare gift,
this thoroughness
at uncovering all
the places where I amount
to too little.
Would that you take your
artistry somewhere else.
In the untethered moments
before my electronic lifeline
reminds me of my more mundane,
disputable existence,
I panic-travel to the beaches
and coastlines of islands
that might not be there much longer.
I dig my toes into the cold, wet
sand, listen to the refrain the wind
whispers to marram grass, and make
a note of this feeling
on the map of collective shame
I etched into my skin in shades
of black and helplessness.
I thread seashells on twine,
interwoven with colour coordinated
pieces of plastic trash.
Ingenious, fragile beauty next
to crude, immature arrogance.
Unfortunate, but history can not
be documented onesided, can it?
I gather sand, and stones that
beg to be thrown at prominent buildings.
But glasshouses, you know.
Bone-weary and my back bent by
the weight of guilt, I have become
a collector of mementoes of our
eventual undoing.
The lights of early
Christmas decorations
fail to gloss over
the tristesse of
a world soaked in grey.
Old townhouses leak
history, kitchen odours,
and a need for repairs,
as the cold light of
telly screens flickers behind
curtainless windows.
A shadow silhouette
fades in and out
of November fog,
the sound of their footsteps
strangely muted.
Nothing feels
lonelier than a city
on a winter night.
I do not know
when my dreams
became your kingdom,
turning a blind eye
as you trimmed my creativity
from torrent to drizzle,
and my wings to fit
your comfort zone.
There seems to be
no middle ground
between your need to control
and my desire for freedom,
so all we have turned into
are two stubborn generals
taking a stand
on opposite hills.
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.
Dressed in resignation
and chained by a sense of duty,
we brace ourselves for
being penned up in a room
full of people wearing
importance and faux smiles
in their chase of acknowledgement
and admiration.
I adore you, you know,
you are so much better at
making the best
of any given situation,
mingling gracefully
while I, ever pensive,
try to get to the bottom
of my aversion for
social gatherings like this.
So I cling to my glass
of whatever is fashionable
at the moment, in the hope
it will drown my non-compliant
notions, and keep my inner rebel
under lock and key.
Trust has woven
its delicate strands
around neglected
promises and
long-forgotten declarations,
stretched thin in
too many places, ready
to disintegrate at any moment.
My approach to
what ended up being us
has always been
an overcautious one;
tentative steps
forward, followed
by hasty retreats.
If you were anything
like me, we would
probably still be trapped
behind walls of hesitation.
The night sky’s amazing
protocol of the past
beckons with a surge
of flickering lights from
uncountable distant suns,
that might just be ghostly
messages of the vanished.
And, as always,
my eccentric mind
is doing somersaults,
dwelling on my own
sort of fancy philosophy.
What if we are the Last Hold,
our galaxy the last light
in a dark, and empty Universe.
Drifting, all alone,
but still drifting,
defying the laws of physics
through pure human stubbornness,
unaware until the last light
has winked out?
Without the slightest hesitation
you crucified me
for your moment of glory.
I did not see it coming,
which stings more
than the actual betrayal.
© Novemberchild
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 