Barter

Do you remember the kiss

I bought for the price of a smile

while tossing gold coins

into the lake?

Do you think the coins are

stil there

in that lake

winking at the fishes?

The thing is,

now I do care

because

the kiss was more expensive

than I thought it would be

but not priceless,

and I would have forgiven that you see.

Windmill

There was once a time
when red reminded me of the hearts on our old coffee cups,
blue was the colour of my favourite dress and the sky,
green was the colour of the front yard
and my favourite lego blocks
and the hedge with the sparrow nests,
and nights were to be feared
because they brought the moon
and the crickets
and ghosts.
Twenty years and a lifetime later;
red has been the colour of pain
and fear
when the coffee cups broke
just like  hearts do.
and blue became a feeling; one that became as familiar as the dress now long lost.
The grass is just as green as always,
greener on the other side
purple when it turns to smoke
and I do not fear the night,
because the moon is beautiful
and makes your fingers look like ivory as they glide across my skin
and I do not fear the crickets,
because they sing for me
even on the nights you aren’t there
and I do not fear ghosts,
(in ways I did as a child)
because I now know they do not live under my bed
but in the past
which is never far.
What I fear is tomorrow
and the harsh light it will bring
and how different we will look
and how the magic will be gone
and how the meaning of colours will change yet again
and how you will be discarded
like
worn clothes and chipped mugs.

Masquerade

Dim lights and mirrors
and cotton sheets
are what I think of when I run,
while every muscle aches
and begs me to stop.
The lamps on the streets come to life
and I wonder
about the fireflies
and where they went;
anything that will distract me
from my body screaming
stop.
Chocolate and wine and lies I want to hear
are promised by the wind
kissing my face
and drying the sweat soaking my thin shirt.
But I am miles away thinking now about
crystal glasses and lipstick
and a dress I’ll slip out of,
leaving a trail of
perfume
and broken false hearts.

Abigail The Heart Breaker

Words I try to grasp at
Slip through my fingers like silk,
and all that I can think of
seems trite
tonight.

This might turn into a hopeless rant
of a fool not in love,
because how can there be love?
when you’re
alone.

Did I just make this pathetic?
I didn’t mean to sweet Abigail,
it’s just that, I thought of you
and I’m afraid today
I am so
bored.

Rhinestones and Fool’s Gold.

When the sun sets

and the azure is marred by dark stains,

when the wind picks up

and I work on those daisy chains,

and  when the stars hide in shame

because they forgot how to shine,

and shadows as soft as my sighs

howl at the broken moon to come alive;

Even then, boy made of stone

my lightening will strike

and there will be no blood tears

no one will mourn your golden lies.

Untitled

Mr Nemo, how do you do?
A safe albeit silly start.
The thing is, even though I pulled an “exist stage left”
I am still here.
Only now…(but that is where the problem lies)
What does one add after an “only now”?

Only now… I am free
Only now… I realise how free I used to be.
Only now.. life makes sense.
Only now..I tell myself life makes lesser sense than the day I painted my toenails the garish colour of a sunset to make you smile
Only now.. I think things were special because I needed nothing, least of all you.

Will you smile Mr. Nemo?
Will you be smug while I pretend not to cry?
Will you care enough to read this?
Will you be too disappointed to reply?
Will you come say hello again
when I bitterly swallow my pride?
and smirk at my weak resolve
when I ask to take back my goodbye.

Lipstick Lies

Empty tea cups

and an ashtray filled to the brim,

a room that smells of cigarettes;

ink, perfume and sin.

A smile that won’t be forgotten

and cherished in dark dreams.

A voice like bells and honey,

and a conscience that silently screams.

But why my love, must I care

when your eyes follow me so;

promising me the moon and the rain

and an ache that will always grow.

A promise of love that would consume

our lipstick lies in its flame,

that would make me burn this shallow world;

such a love for you I’ll save.

Like Cherry Blossoms.

To him, women were like flowers.

They were delicate and beautiful and he was spoilt  for choice. He could charm the classic beauties who had lovely faces and sharp tongues, like the roses that grew in his gardens. There were the exotic ones like the tiger lilies who would almost have him wrapped around their little fingers, the sweet ones like the daffodils, that always made him smile. Then there were the beautiful but forgettable ones like the gerbera daises and dangerous ones like poppies who would intoxicate him with kiss after drugging kiss.

Yes, he had a flower for each kind of woman he had ever encountered and love, like life, was like cherry blossoms – beautiful and fleeting and yet…eternal.

Then he met her and she wasn’t like any ordinary flower..

She was like the morning sun and winter, like sweet sake on a moonlit night, the summer winds and thunder and lightening.

She was like cherry blossoms herself.

Shower Songs

She would sing in the shower.

Of all the quirks she had, that was the only one that lacked any originality and yet the one he loved the most.

She would make up the words to songs she vaguely knew, sometimes she would change the tune as well ; and on days when she couldn’t be bothered to make up words to replace the ones she had forgotten, she would yell from the bathroom asking him for his help.
He wonders now if she still sings; in the shower or otherwise, and if and when she does, does she still think of him when she gets stuck or does she stop singing?

What is painful is knowing that he isn’t important enough to take away her songs.
What he ignores is that someone else fills in the words to complete them now.

The Wolf.

There was once a Big Bad Wolf
who had a foolish dream,
of finding a pure red heart
and tainting it with deciet.
So every evening at sundown,
the jaded streets he’d roam
not knowing of any other place
he’d find Red Riding Hood to take home.
Searching for big innocet eyes
amongst the walking dead,
and straining to hear her laughter
in words that were never said.
“Hey Red Riding Hood
I am hungry for your love.
Your tasty foolish heart
is begging to be devoured.
Forget your grandma and your mother’s basket
and do come out and play,
that boring world and what it says,
only stands true during the day.”
But the Wolf didn’t know the honey trap
that was Red Riding Hood’s smile,
or the mischief that was hidden
behind those innocent eyes,
and as the sun went down,
the Big Bad Wolf followed her home
in his haste forgetting,
red was never the colour of someone pure.