for i love my clear umbrella
makes me feel so young, too young.
makes perfect excuses for me, for you.
& i've been walking further everyday
once around the block, maybe to the park;
today i walked three suburbs away.
i didn't want to turn back
i was so close to you.
a blue novel wrapped in rice paper,
a postcard to apologise for the
barbaric amount of time which
has elapsed, since you last
set eyes on this! it gives me
a thrill to come home burnt brown,
with my witch's skirt
tattered & torn.
if only you knew the places i went
while you took a siesta, placed
your coffee in the fridge.
i've lacked a certain feeling
lately. or maybe it has been
months. yesterday, while perched
on a bench, by the monster-tree
i cried.
all the beauty in the shivering trees, in the pristine blue of the sky, signalled something much greater than my small sorrows. out of complete awe, or complete self-indulgence, i needed to break down. so i wept in the daylight, with my limbs at odd angles.
& it felt real fine, like being sweet-talked by tall strangers ((you)).
i've been singing to myself, in the dark
making wishes, lighting candles,
talking with cats. & i have
grown so old in the time
taken to reverse
good decisions
i am smelling spices from across the street
& the evening air is a seranade made
of crickets wings & vodka
conversations. there is
the rest of eternity to
repair what i've done,
there is a world
of elegant words
to say to you
what i need
to say.