when Betty called him Al

Although Paul Simon’s song

was just about to play

We closed the door behind

last night – 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.

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‘innocent’

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.

You May be a Reminder

Maybe you never were

More than a reminder:

Of the sugar cravings

I’d oppressed ever since

I was thirteen years old.

Maybe, I never was

Meant to pick her amber

Hair off your shirt that day,

When you put too much fake

Honey in my flat white.

Or maybe it was just

My body that could not

Stand winter days in May,

Which seemed so cold to you

And offly warm to me.

And surely it’s not you

Who’s lying here right now;

Since you’re 8000 miles

Away, while I am back

With him in that place: Home.

Watershed

It

Might

As well be a

Watershed moment,

Since I like to dive deep,

Always, until I can hardly breathe

Until I can hear my heartbeat: Loud and clear.

The key

Three keys are lying

In the clean and empty

Kitchen cupboard,

Ready to be taken away

By the lady who’s

Checking the flaws,

Our flaws, the ones

We did our best to wash away

Four days in a row,

With acid and with baking soda.

Three keys aligned,

Three keys, not four:

My key had slipped

Through the hole of

My white tweed coat

Some time, long ago.

Maybe I’ll find

That missing one.

Then I would sneak

Through this door

That will lead

To a life

Which won’t be ours anymore.

The photos on the wall

Won’t show you or me or

Anyone we know.

The air won’t smell

Of the cinnamon granola

I made the day before.

You won’t be lying

Asleep on the sofa bed,

Waiting for me

To wake you up.

And still,

I might be keeping that key.

Just because

It once opened and 

Shut our world.

Cape Nostalgia

Her soprano to my strum
Under stars on someone’s patio.
Sea-breezed highway rides
Stapled to his waist.
Honey-infused coffee, twice
At Dolce: 9 am.
Dozing to her heartbeat
Having conquered paradise.
Carpet, fire, popcorn, blankets
As rains rage outside.
All shapes and neon colours
Running the city at night.
Brownies on my backyard-floor,
Just because we could.
Tablecloth like sugar-coating,
Or like smoke.
Giggly, tipsy, and best cheesecake in the world.
Twerking, jumping, sweating,
Hair sticking to hot heads.
Walking home and feeling safe;
And feeling it still.

Keeper’s Haiku

Like the red pencil

That’s carried around always,

Easily erased.

 

Like the old pencil

That you still have in your bag

Blunt, but not broken.

 

Inconsiderable,

Never jeopardizing space,

Don’t dispose of me.

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