Thursday, August 31, 2017

Now What?

I sit here looking at everything; nothing. I heard you were looking for something. Was it your soul, your inspiration, your heart? What is it? Tell me. I lost mine a few years ago, in between Gower Street and Grafton Way, perpendicular to a body covered in white sheets. I lost mine outside where we used to live, close to Chalk Farm, when a police officer's description of murder by domestic violence resembled a song lip-synced by Taylor Swift. I lost mine every single time I passed a homeless congregation sleeping outside Dreams (The Bed Specialist). I lost it when I finally understood the tragic irony.

Go ahead, do tell. What did you lose? Was it your sanity? I lost mine too, nay misplaced. If I bothered looking, I'll probably find it hidden amidst the lies: this is rather interesting; yes, yes, but of course! Now, the truth is, what I'm really thinking is: butterflies and leprechauns, what does it all mean? Oh wait a second, I smell gasoline! And before I realise what's going on, I'm on fire, I'm burning, and there's no way out. I made this bed (unlike the homeless man on Tottenham Court Road). I made it, I lied in it, and while I did, I lost who I was. Poof. Gone. Like Harry Houdini's elephant. That's alright, I'm sure he'll turn up eventually.

So the question now is: how do I get it all back? Do I put posters up on trees? If I do, what should they say? "Lost Soul: Please Return To Owner."? It's a long shot, too many months have passed, but I have to give it a go.

I have to.

Wednesday, May 24, 2017

Sunlit

I'll never get used to waking up next to you,
clothes on the carpet; your jeans, a faded blue.
Your smile, piercing through the still of the night,
and I'm sitting here, trying my best not to write.

But then it all comes back, triggering déjà vu;
the minute I met you, the moment I knew.
Your arms wrapped around me as if I'm home;
no longer on a stroll, a wander. I used to roam.

I put my hand on your chest so I can feel it;
that humble heart glowing in the dark (sunlit).
It doesn't speak but I can hear it talking,
or maybe it's just me, maybe I'm sleepwalking.

Softly we chat, serenaded by the projected stars.
For three years, we have been making memories: ours.
I close my eyes, and you don't think I see it, but I do.
You and me together for another ninety; they flew!

Friday, February 10, 2017

New Home

It took us five months - one, two, three, four, five;
two wild bees buzzing without their sugar hi-gh/ve.
Us two and the boxes and suitcases gathering dust;
we hear you, we get it, settling down is not a must.

What is, is riding a jeepney in Manila and its mundane,
on the thirty seventh floor after a fourteen hour plane.
What is, is you and me on our own private sandy beach,
driving through El Nido on a motorbike, a helmet each.

You and I, we tend to live like there's no tomorrow,
like the minutes and the hours are not for borrow.
Peter and Wendy in fictional, magical Neverland,
sucked into a vortex, up to the knees in quicksand.

You and I, we don't live like everybody else and that's alright by me;
life does not come with rules - we are, we are, we are free.
I love you, in the end that's all that matters.
Grab my hand, let's go home together.