Eating mushrooms, to her is yet another art
she loves to perfect, in my ear she whispers
with such visible pleasure,"I want to be a connoisseur in this"
Her studio smelled herbs and wild flowers of inner forest,
brought me back to the cardamom and cinnamon garden
I played in my days of boyhood; spices build a  bridge for us.

More of a herbalist than a paint smelling artist, she seems,
mounted on the wall on irregular fashion were the mushrooms
she painted with a passion rare, and a precision mirroring life;
the paintings  brought her past in to the studio, only trained eyes
would discern the cryptic symbolism, a consummate artist she certainly is!

 The woman who smoked cigars in succession and untiringly danced,
she said was her favorite, along the lake front we took a long walk
comparing notes;  there were parallels that met, we found soon enough.
"You too knew her so well, I am aware", she said. A room filled with smoke
where we dance, make love, grow tired, fall down and sleep, wasn't it our life?
No one can miss the signature smell of her dense cigar smoke on my dress!"

I loved the smell of cloves she exhaled while eating mushrooms.
though detachment she pretended, eating mushrooms never was that!
I kept looking down at her eyes, a sailor about to sight the land,
any panting moment that rushes with a monsoon song for me and her.

love the boy who paints–
who harnesses the power of the spectrum
and brings life to his views
on the world

admire his colourful fingers
and lead stained hands.
he didn't mean to fray the
brushes like
he frayed your heart strings.

he only wants a little life
in his body and soul.
he paints with you in mind.
and when you see the crumpled up
tubes on the floor
of his bedroom,
know that they reflect
his efforts to make you happy.

his candle light flickered
in the dark room
whereupon it drew
a beautiful moth into it's loom

they had a rendezvous
that did beguile and bewitch
as magnetism
plied in each love stitch

packing things in paper,
becomes the work, performance,
thus,
unpacked remains ditto
the effect.

sound, smoothing,
discovery of found mementos,
blood and rags.

will there be effect,
or as a facebook posting,
to be slid over, looking
for weather and new
connections.

the paper is creased badly.

sbm.

good name.

i often spell it worng,
ask him.

met on the station,
like a film, black and white.

kissed, discussed the world,
and poetry over coffee, in exhibition,
with fish n’ chips, recommended by
the locals, tasted like dripping, lovely.

visited an old house,i talked about
my old house, we discovered cures
for ghastly things with diagrams, all
spelled with ‘f’ s.

over tea, we turned black and
white again. decided,

any difference should make no difference,
the third word not allowed,
no more.

good name,
we are friends in colour.

sbm.

What if your soulmate was living on the other side of the world?
Singing songs in little venues
About girls nobody else knows.

What if your soulmate was sitting in a coffee shop 30,000 miles away?
Writing words into that old journal
About guys she's too shy to talk to.

What if your soulmate walked right by you, in a sea of people on a busy street?
Running for a bus to take to his mothers
Eyes never meeting.

But what if your soulmate met you.
And talked with you.
For seemingly endless hours.
But only for two days.

What if your soulmate had to stay in her boring town life.
What if your soulmate had yet another flight to catch.

What then?
What if soulmates exist?

I don't want us to have any what if's?

So stand a little closer to me.
And kiss me how you would if you knew this was the beginning of forever.

but oh...
how can you miss someone
you never actually met?