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Friendship offered, warmly met
Creating such a bond
Melding a relationship
From a casualness to fond.
It all invoked a strong regard
Which built a warming grace
Incorporating responsibility
For each other to embrace
A crucible of affection,
A passion to enfold
Anticipations joy to feel
Each smiling face as gold.
Built a  nice dependence
That each other will be there
Should the slightest shadow  
intervene
To cause each other care...

But then, just only yesterday,
Where we arranged to meet
In that cutest little cafe
On that sweetest little street...
I waited for your smiling face
To happily appear
But alas, you never showed at all
Confused, I shed a tear.
Then your cellphone kept on ringing
As I tried call after call
But alas, it went unanswered
With no messages at all.
Distraught,
I caught you at your door
A distance on your face,
The coldness in your startled eyes
Cruelty
Put me in my place.
I reeled away in torment,
Sad realization sewn,
That love had flown right out the door
Leaving hurt and I,
Alone.

M@Foxglove.Taranaki.NZ
Thought I would delve into some ancient recollections of the tragic  superficiality of some fledgling relationships, past.
Reasons for the heartbreak range from  reluctance to commit to a realization of a differentiation of the social mix.
Reasons for a sudden and cruel abandonment rest primarily, though, on the level of personal integrity of the participants....as to whether or not they have the "chutzpah" to see it through.
A chaos of multiple languages
overloads my system,
and the blackout hits hard.

An hour is still an hour,
or is it transforming into something else?
In French, they say l’heure, so sensual
Italian ore speak in tasty sounds.

But what if I want to choose
Spanish tres horas?
I miss the Polish godzina so much
moving my mother tongue's rhythm.

I need more space in my brain
My head is so heavy,
My heart enjoys moments like
a child on a playground

Making my language smoothie
I feel chromatic delirium.
Spinning through a galaxy into a black hole.
I should have listened to my mother
telling me, Agnes, do one thing!
Nobody dares in old Beijing—
the reeking air hides thunder.
A silent fang in motion strikes,
All consequence asunder.

Thought leans toward a slanted truth;
contention pays the fee.
For somewhere, someone whispers low—
Blank walls report the plea.

Everything is monitored,
each whisper, breath, or tread.
To thread an injudicious thought
could mean you'll end up dead.

Distance offers no relief—
pull not the dragon’s tail.
For agents ride on silken wings
to read your foreign mail.

And yet, the jasmine still unfurls,
the ink still stains the page.
A rebel hides behind a smile—
a poet, disengaged.

Paper lanterns flicker low,
Silent courtyards sing
Red banners herald portends
That dreaded whispers bring.

Distant looms the Emperor
In the dynasty of jade
Where impulse slays the endgame
Of all the endgames, played.

M@Foxglove.Taranaki.NZ
  May 4 Marshal Gebbie
Garima
you and me we'd never work
sounds silly but you kiss too soft
you carry an umbrella for "just incase"
I love nothing more than to dance in the rain
you settle for just enough
while I want to feel too much

I am a broken vase you see
a vase that would  pour regardless how much you fill
we'd build a house where no story lies
we'd see each other but with no sparkle in  eyes
its  not love you feel
and one day you too will see
you'd kiss me but just with your lips
but I want a kiss with a wrecked whole heart
my love we are world's apart
and in our case opposites don't attract

you would be you
and I would be me
but we would never be us
that's why  we'd never work
so lets say the goodbye before it hurts
The ceiling peels in slow spirals,
not from neglect,
but from how long I’ve stared at it,
counting the flake’s hesitation before it drops.
The clock ticks without punctuation,
dragging each second like a dull knife
across something soft I used to need.

My limbs forget they’re mine
unless I remind them,
a muscle twitches,
a shoulder reconsiders its weight.
Even my name feels unstitched,
like a coat I keep meaning to throw away
but wear because it still remembers my shape.

Outside, birds call to each other
like they’ve never been tired,
like morning isn’t a decision.
Inside, I steep in low-level static,
a hum no one else hears,
thick as wool,
soft as resignation.
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