tattoos

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.

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white cars

Sometimes, fear comes in a white car.

Sometimes, fear blinds you with its 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

Way before the mornings come.

Sometimes, when the sun lights up

The bumps, the willow trees, the locked-up gates,

You still turn your head and think

There are too many white cars out there.

‘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.

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.

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

20.32: same place

Four hands intermingle beside

Two empty bottles of

One inch old coke.

 

Lit candles sometimes pierce the room,

Filled with the ardent steam

That is my breath.

 

I smell my henna-coloured hair,

Like dry earth in the sun.

I don’t like it.

 

Still, I lean over in my chair

To un-hide from behind

The marble shafts.

 

I think how I could write a note

With something loveable

To say to you.

 

I’d hand it over when I pass,

Sweet dreams are on replay.

Like my heartbeat.

 

I swallow the last luke-warm sip

And slide into my bath

Of narcissism.

 

Perhaps you’re peering at me, too.

It’s easy to think that,

In tungsten light.

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