consisting of milk cartons,
casualties in cooking,
expert workings of
a petrol pump.
yet confined to small universes,
small rooms, a narrow hall. i
feel depleted, sick, weak.
bound to this resentment,
to this truth which twists
my arm into painful knots
unleashed, i would run so far from you
when do we start parting ways?
when my hands become older than my face?
when my mind, kept naive though
knowing more than you did,
longs for bigger things?
i stare out the window of
a tiny take-away shop, having
waited there for what seems an hour.
my latte is growing cold in a car
across the street, my small luxurious
dinner; all i really craved tonight.
the sky has been changing colour slowly
from gossamer greys, to mauve, to a
silken royal blue. the parisian lights
are making small shadows of every
beggar, meekly hiding under
broken umbrellas; under
delusions of cover.
there is a palm tree swaying
slightly in the winds; taller than anything
more majestic than the palatial restaurants & bars.
it refuses to bend, break or tear
holding to the earth bravely,
unwavering.
& i wonder what small devotions do i keep for you?
because i've kept very few in my life.
i come home to close the sad door
that creaks when in motion,
it doesn't know any better
lean against it with my waif's shoulder,
bitten purple by a mouth that has
failed to convey. my broken finger
& eyes that have seen lights die
before they fall; turn to ashes,
turn to dust, turn to promises
you never made. i am not
sorry for my mistakes.
i will not bow down to your feet,
though older, though wiser, though they
have walked a thousand miles more. you
have forsaken my gratitude & age, instead
fearing that one late evening will see
my quick flight. but i have shed my wings,
broken my bones & riddled my head
with tedious thought, remaining
shackled to small rooms
& a narrow hall.