Polish

With time,
The threads
Keeping us
Together
Have lost
Colour and
Spark.

Let It Be

We’re at our favourite spot at our favourite hour. The sun has set but the light is still there through hues and cues. We sit in silence – aware of the underlying tension but too tired from our respective personal spaces to address it tonight. Let it be tonight, we think. Let it be tonight, we act. Let it be.

Carrots And, Milk

I could look back

Ten days later

And find this

Letter to you,

Impulsive.

But perhaps,

In another ten years,

It’ll remind me

Of the warmth

Glowing within me,

On an icy day.

Blank Pages

We’ve left blank pages

In between

For no specific reason

Apart from

Just in case

We needed to add

Or change anything.

Personal Sunshine

The house smelt of

Warm butter an hour ago,

Giving the rains and sweater weather

The company you didn’t know

It was missing.

Playground

The sun is still a few hours from setting;

A few hours before the kids come to the park

And compel us to handover the swings to them.

Memory Material

We made a vow
To gift each other memories
Instead of materials.
You’d take me
For coffee and donuts
At midnight when
The moon was full,
While I’d take us
For drives by the beach
When the clouds turned
From red to violet to black.
We’d dance to records
Playing on your grandfather’s gramophone
After work,
In dark or pastel formals
With neon print socks.

I Would Have Known That

If on the tenth of December

In the year twenty-fifteen,

I’d stayed up past midnight

And seen your message

At two in the morning for me

But four in the morning for you,

I would have known that

Never Trust Writers

I read a poem today

That told me to

Never trust writers.

Balance

I’m painting your nails while you fill me up on what’s happened over summer and autumn in your life in between sips of a chocolate and peanut butter shake. You wanted something common that would go with any outfit you wore tonight so you chose a metallic black with bits of glitter. A nude would have been bland for your taste; it would be my choice of nails. I’ve locked your fingers with mine because you’re reckless and I was determined to let the paint dry without a smudge this time. You complained about not being able to drink the shake like this before giggling at the possibility of you still managing to get a smudge on the nail-paint. Because of course, that would be classic you and not entirely impossible. But then again, that’s if it were somebody other than me involved in this equation.

Project : Trace Lines

This gallery contains 11 photos.