If not full of myself
what else should I be full of?
Or would you, rather,
have me half empty?
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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.
Drop
That day,
we sang to drown
Out the sound of the
Rain hitting our
Stubborn
heads
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.
Trust
I was still wearing
Your necklace. The whole
Golden weight of trust
Dangling against my
Collar bone, as he
Grabbed me at my waist.
Cape Winters
Capetonian winters are orange at night.
When I wake up in the middle
Of an unsettling dream.
Capetonian winters seem orange at night.
For weeks now I counted the stars
From my bed’s safest spot.
The wind is disguised as thunder these days
And it’s the city lights, I think,
All mingling with the mist,
Which make Capetonian winters look orange
At night, when I make space for you,
In my bed’s safest spot.
Dear friend,
Five thousand miles or more away, I think you’ll never know, how much you changed perspectives; back when you said, my physical desire was almost like a superpower.
Yours, F
