Acetone*

It wouldn't take
a simple overnight
to have enough of him, now;
You miss him,
isn't that right,
as you tie your shoe laces
and clench your jaw tight.
How long is soon?
The waiting party's over,
your resistance, a deflated balloon.
You're running out of air, silly girl,
too attached with your care.
You're a switch and he flips you
from nothing to everything,
and you're weaponless.
So, do yourself a favour,
and stop counting all the seconds
you've waited for him,
stop wasting your 11:11,
or else when the clock
finally breaks down,
the time might just **** you.

i am reading poems—
all of it reminds me of you.
so i thought,
why not write one about you?

let me write the sorrow i feel during your absence;
the pain i feel is an absolute madness.
let me write about the butterflies;
those eyes will always leave me hypnotised.
let me write about the comfort;
your way with words will always be a sunburst.

I sigh again, but it is as
Though you have become
Immune to the
Sounds of my discomfort

Indifferent to the tears
That soak my pillow
Late at night

Sliding effortlessly
Down the ridges and planes
Of my face
Draped in a thousand shades
Of sorrow
The shadows dancing
on my hollow cheeks.
Sunken and demure.

Your eyes stare in my direction
But my motions don't catch your eye
You prefer to ponder,
mesmerised,
by the faintest
Movement outside the window

Your brown eyes wide
And bathed in sunlight
The colour of honey
So distinct,
But lacking its sweetness

Follow the hustle and bustle
Of the Parisian streets,
As your hand lifts,
ever so slowly, from
resting on my shoulder,
Onto the ledge.

You've made up your mind.

~ZA

Someone once told me that life is just a series of moments,
that the past is merely a story we tell ourselves before we fall asleep.
And so I look at him and I am reminded that I am not who I was a moment ago,
and that I shouldn't try to be.
I fear a reality of fiction and distortion,
where my life is a blurry foreign film and he is the fourth wall,
always broken.
I have written of lovers and their seemingly intangible hands for so long that my concept of time is impressionable,
one might even call it sacrilegious.
I have bled dry every metaphor capable of embodiment that I wonder if it ever meant anything,
I wonder if anything ever will.

I want to write him into a scripture of meaning, of something other than illustrated angish.
I want to write about something that isn't love,
that isn't a thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to.
I want to write about the way he leads me into rock pools,
like a child being baptized.

I look at him and I am reminded of the ocean,
as if his blood can only move in waves without devotion,
more like instinct.
I want to write about something that isn't love,
because this is more like inspiration.
This is not knowing what could possibly come after his tide falls back.

I am aware that literature always ruins the ending,
that finishing a book mid sentence is the only way to avoid the loss of its final words.
I am aware that beautiful things can never stay,
but maybe that's what makes them beautiful.
He is a picture of my perfect faith,
but he doesn't make me want to believe in religion,
because I know god hates the competition.

For so long I had thought that I was never going to feel anything new,
that I had exceeded the depth of emotions,
like anything that follows can only be a lesser version of something previously felt,
but here I gawk with a mouthful of blasphemous teeth.

I couldn't tell you about the snowstorm he evokes within my chest,
nor the locust plague that raid in his name.
Because this is not a love story,
at least not just yet.
This is a man that has grown roots where I have only planted seeds,
a man that scripts his stories on the soles of his feet.
*And so I look at him,
and I am reminded that I am not who I was a moment ago,
and that I shouldn't try to be.