This view

I want to live everywhere
See everything
Meet everyone
I have been staring at these trees too long

Secrets

Some day
I will keep a book
And write in it
All the things you never told me

And it will have just one page

Diamonds

I may have amnesia for everything. But there are things I'll never forget, like the way you speak, the feel of your palm, the things you've told me and that expression you get when you're about to call me crazy again. And these things I'll hold inside, crushing down on them, burying them beneath the weigh of my beating heart, heavy from so much running. I'll hold these memories down forever. Until they crystalise and I am left with just a sparkle in my eye, the diamond of that memory, so glorious as the shining moment of its birth. Or maybe just a tear.

Seed

And everything pulled me in different directions. I was a seed, airborne with feathery wings, and the thing that drew me swiftest was the sight of you. But eventually, I couldn't see any longer.
I'm still drawn, still tossed and thrown and flown. And I can't land. I cannot see. I cannot be. Yet every known wind carries me. Until I don't know who I am, and nothing matters anymore.

The purpose is the purpose of the purpose

Not for the polite or easily offended

(I sincerely urge you not to read this if you are in the above category)

Occasionally,
   on a mild afternoon,
You may travel to a calm place 
Fitted with cool smooth marble
And, there, let a stream of clear liquid
Eschew gently from beneath you
So serenely 
That it encourages you to pen
Just a few words
On peeing.

Simplicity

Like muck children we were
Born into the sun
Playing on beaches with no sunscreen
Wearing skirts and dresses without stockings
Ours was a carefree existence

We needed no sophistication
Not to know the names of wines
Nor the shame of less than adequate etiquette
In fact, we were inarticulate
And we never stopped
Not even once
To check someone's "last scene at" on whatsapp

Tiny

From the sky their houses look so small. Streets so narrow. People less and trees tiny. 

And their magnificent buildings so minute, with little doors, tiny windows, and trees. Oh and trees, so so many little trees. And little nests in them with even little-er birds. 

And tiny weddings. Little lights. Small dreams. And tiny plans. And little places to hang your petit coat when an honest day's work is through. 

Traffic island

In the midst of the chaos, I found her, steady as a ship, unaffected by the storm. She gazed, immutable, at something in the distance. Neither did she move nor make a sound, yet all around her they scurried like field mice below deck. 

Was it a state of calm or one of shock? Did she hold the wisdom of when to react and to what? Or did she lack the means to? Was it peace or pain that kept her this way?

These things I will never know, for as she began to turn my way, the traffic broke, drawing me away from her little traffic island. 

Where I Live

This is where I live. In the smooth moss and sludge of the great greygreenblue, I lie serpentine to the floor. Sky streams far overhead, casting smoky patterns through the ripples. This is where I live, at the bottom of the ocean, at the lowest place on earth, beneath gallons and gallons and gallons and gallons. Beneath, at the bottom, vision clouded by venerable glass-formed algae, the water is mouldy green and still. And the fish are my company, the hermit crabs and the flounders, but they never stop to say hello.

Peachy

When she smiles, I hope everything is covered in shades of gold. I wish for you to see things in the softness of honey-coloured light, as if dusk were falling or a shimmering dawn breaking; I wish on you that wonder that comes from watching every sharp edge disappear with the light. I want life for you to be peachy, filled with grace, and dewy, dusted with nothing but loveliness. When you look at her, I wish that you could see all of this. And more. So much, much more.

The Things You Notice

Him: Well-defined jawline, clean brow, too-thick hair, athletic frame, crisp shirt, dusty shoes...
Her: Gorgeous face, wedding ring.

Gratitude

I'd like to thank the trees, for being my company when I had none. And the leaves, for being my friends. And the sun for shining just a little longer, till I saw the gorgeous dragonfly, just above my head.

And I thank the weeds for coming home with me, "Thank you for sticking by", I whisper, pulling them from the laces of my shoes.

An Experiment, in Winter

I've watched the months as they've passed; slowly slipping cotton silk. And all the birds in the trees, damp songs singing. "Winter hasn't left yet", they're cooing, canoodling, cuddling their eggs till it's warmer. And behind shuttered glass, humans, in their warm woolly winterwear, warming themselves by a kindly fire. Above my left ear, the soft white wind rustles the trees, snow begins to peters off leaves; and freshly fallen it turns to muck beneath the soles of my feet.

The Part of You That Is Me

When there was some hope in the universe
When there is some light
I couldn't have been more wrong
And you couldn't have been more right

"My heart must be *this* tiny", she said, holding her fingers a centimetre or two apart.

Double Bed

When two people get married or cohabitate, or even spend the night together; how do they decide who takes which side of the bed? I never figured out how my parents chose and I've been wondering ever since. 

Bitter

Like the smell of coffee, residual memories cling to everything and everyone; faint reminders of all the things we're trying to forget.

Inane

I'm distracted from scrutinising the lines on my face by the pigeon outside our bathroom window. He watches me strangely, cocking his head this way and that, examining my dental hygiene routine with his discerning eyes.

And then finally, he asks:
What are you doing?

I'm brushing my teeth, it's something we do.

He's unimpressed:
Why?

Well, we like to keep clean.

That's rubbish, he smirks and leaves me to wonder if he was talking about social constructs or...

Epilogue

Shy strains of morning, I mistake the milk swirling into my coffee for the blood that rushes your veins and I think for a moment that I might miss you, I just might. And yet dawn is hours away; three and a half to be precise.