I change in contrast
to the place I claim.
I’m a converse chameleon,
dressed up in anti-camouflage.
I’m right here exposed to all the offerings
of yours, which you did not know you had until
you saw me
in the crowds;
sticking out.
it could have been a one-shot,
a picture perfect take:
wide striped pants and plain white shirt
running towards his scented neck,
sunlight blushing in the face
of how blue-eyed they are
tipsy, even, turning tables
breathing words or gasping for,
water color painted futures
is that why they shed no tears?
red wine flooding fairy lights
hand on neck and hands in curls,
jumping up, it’s time to leave
the tension in the dark
flying through the streets at night,
someone’s bedroom to be clear,
they choose bridges over boundaries,
that look like railway tracks indeed,
turning onto Ossian Road,
confusing promises and cheeky jokes,
she laughs and won’t believe,
what difference would it make?
Still, there is a chance:
that their performance
feeds on purity —
and movies don’t.
By February 22nd, we would face our:
fingertips like words,
manifestos we could write,
liquids wrapped in tissues,
velvet temples to inhale,
lost keys to open doors,
redundant gears in knee-deep snow,
sofa beds for sleepless nights,
furniture to push and hidden limits, too;
haunting voices when there’s radio silence,
clogged noses in shared space apart,
night flights away, seasons reversed,
peroxide-stubborn hair,
cuts, punctures and incisions,
light feet and heavy tongues,
droughts before day zero,
and rains that come to send me
home.
falling in love is
like the tattoo
you want to inject
under your skin.
a narrative which
I will wind
around your
silky forearm hair,
your dimples
and your heated chest.
Sometimes, fear is a white car.
Sometimes, fear blinds you with headlights.
Sometimes, fear comes to a halt one inch before your knees.
Sometimes, fear chases you through residential roads at night:
The bumps, the willow trees, the locked-up gates.
Sometimes, fear has its engines fade
into the breaking dawn.
And sometimes, when the sun lights up
The bumps, the willow trees, the locked-up gates,
You find that you’re turning your head.
There are too many white cars out there.
When I put polish on my little toe.
Yours was so small you had to paint its flesh.
When I look at my own childhood pictures: Strawberry blond, blue-eyed.
They said we had looked so similar.
Whenever I touch a scarf.
Particularly, when I wear it too tight.
Although Paul Simon’s song
was just about to play
We closed the door behind
our backs – and walked away
into the drizzly rain.
Perhaps it was right then
that I could cease to look
for reasons that would justify
my presence in your life,
and just be there instead.
Perhaps it was right then
that I could find in you,
My friend, my long-lost pal,
as Al can call her Betty
and Betty calls him Al.
in·no·cent | \ˈi-nə-sənt
from Latin innocentia,
that denotes no ‘harm‘,
as well from Latin nocere,
‘injuring‘ someone,
or anyone involved.
blameless with integrity,
upright and disinterested,
lacking guilt or artifice
like a child,
protected and naive.
surely free
from legal wrong,
free from guilt and
free from sin,
with candid lack of knowledge,
I declare you are:
ingenuous, artless, ignorant
of the evil you have caused
of the guilt we’re all incapable
to blame you for.
If not full of myself
what else should I be full of?
Or would you, rather,
have me half empty?
