A woman with a past, she’s forever making peace with it Its pages written when the years were raging and wild mellowed by time, they nurse pain in brittle folds when I try to turn them, she breaks into tales untold.
Her heart is stone cold and yet she knows of love How? she doesn’t know. How? I can’t begin to tell She gives her all to me and retreats behind the stage, when I press rewind, she slips into the act to cover-up her ache.
She tells me she wasn’t looking, and in her made-up now she built a life whole and knit a yarn of awesomeness I broke the many mirrors that mirrored her insta smile She cowered and hugged me to escape her own guile
You don’t know my past, she tells with mock belief I remind her we are both travellers having come this far Our journeys writ on milestones dotting many a stay We’re interesting stories we picked and lived on the way
She doubts the past won’t measure up to my idea of love The night, I tell her, doesn’t care what you did with mornings It just wants you to lose yourself, moor you to its dock make it whole again, and stop looking at the clock.
Is past a curse or a collection of experiences? It’s like a chasm full of pebbles, each pebble a story, telling of a journey unique and interesting.