May I ask,
when hands are quaking beneath
an empty winters sun,
palms chapped and a sand paper tongue,

Why you have chosen to wait
in the ceaseless white snow
for a letter?

If you are expecting a lullaby
to appear,
wrapped snug
in the crackle of bubble wrap,
tucked away
in a fold of Manila,

You would be more hopeful
to listen out for a
bare whispering of the melody
upon the frigid wind.

Why you would choose
to stand and wait
on a Sunday when all is clear ice
is beyond me.

May I say,
as your fingers go numb,
I hope it is worth it.

Eyes closed
To an evenings backdrop
Velvet black with purple stars.

Whisper me the answers
So they will float across
The gloom
Form letters in the
Maroon night sky.

Only when pupils meet skin
May the words reveal themselves
To me.

Only when I lay my head
To rest on the soft white
Cotton of my pillow.

We like what we are
nearly certain we may have.
We like what is nearby,
what we can grab onto.

We like what we know,
what we have before touched.
What we have already explored
and found all the shortcuts through.

We like what we may find
at all times.
What never hides, what is
not a mystery.

*To be avoided

What is the point of faking your smiles,
faking your feelings
towards someone you do not even care about?

What is the point of giving time,
sharing laughters
to somebody you do not even want to be with?

What are you even thinking
when you are with me?
Conversing thoughts
and taking in every minute possible
without actually absorbing
all the words I am constructing

Sunday morning.
Eating her food,
Drinking her coffee

While she sleeps in. I
Miss her through the
Door, but a

Lady is entitled to her peace.
Last night I
Think I fell

Ever so slightly deeper
In trouble when
She, with the assertiveness

Of a woman aware
Of her own
Loveability,

Ran her fingers through
My beard; taking all
The time she wanted

To whisper: *"I really,
Really like
You."