Leading someone
on
feels
like writing
the beginning
of the
cutest poem
and then
it sudde.......

Red, Orange, Yellow
These colours make me mellow
Green, Blue, Violet
One can say, the colours of silence
Indigo
This one cannot go
Though
I must admit
It is only fit
That in this metropolis
Of colours; not monotonous
They foster a sort of preponderance
Though when squished, form
A sort of colourful incontinence,
A bowel movement like this.
Because these colours, when mixed
Form a brown-ish bliss
A ***** abyss
Though ugly; something amiss
This uniqueness can’t be missed
I find myself lost in this
And I have no idea when to stop it
I’ll swallow my words down my oesophagus
To end this literary incompetence.

Adult talk’s to me a curious thing–
The phone’ll ring
And when you pick up, it’ll just be
A choreographed routine
“How long has it been since you’ve called me?”
You discuss your kids, your wealth,
Your job, your health,
But never anything fun.
Nothing. Not one
Word of laughter or joy
(Unless it’s fake).
I wait for someone to make
A joke but never happens
Without being at the expense of us.
Otherwise they just make a fuss
Of Trump and Kamala,
Or other political debates and talks.
Why, how do you just stay and not walk
Away from the conversation?
It seems an obligation
To sit through the meaningless words.
So far, all I’ve heard
From dialogues between grown-ups
Is just useless fodder.
I don’t know why they bother.

Let me be alone,

I do like it and get bored --


when in company.

I sat in restless chairs
I breathed stilted air
what feeling compares
with feeling squandered?

I’m not sadfishing,
I was bored at a 5-star hotel.
I’d swum the Atlantic - in the underground pool
and I felt like I was marinating in boredom.

It was as if the loudest thing in our suite was
the sound of my eyelashes flapping up and down.

I wasn’t in solitary confinement,
Lisa was there too - and just-as bored.
She didn’t complain, 'cause she’s ‘New Yorker’ stoic.
So I started complaining for her - for the team.

We’d filtered every boutique,
sampled every eclectic café,
there’s just nothing to do in Geneva.
It is an implacable reality.

Peter (my bf) was at work all day and we were on vacation.

It’s different when he’s around.
He walks into the room and I feel like
a phone that’s been placed on its charger
- the world lights up and I get - charged.

“We should make a list,” I'd announced, “the pros and cons of boredom.”
“No,” Lisa said, “Let’s name fun things.”

“Fruity Pebbles popcorn,” I started.
“Girl panda makeup” Lisa offered,
“Foot massages and bubblegum”
“Cotton candy and sunflowers”
“Holidays and sparkly things!”
- we went on and on and on and -
“kittens” I updogged dreamily, before I switched the subject completely.

“We need to go to Paris!” I pronounced, excitedly.
“Oh yeah?” Lisa asked, with a little side head-bob.
“Actionable intel,” I whispered, “Grandmère wants to see me.”
Lisa gasped, adding, “You’re in TROUBLE,” drawing the last syllable out slowly.
“That would be a first,” I laughed.

“Kisses!” She exclaimed, resuming the game.
I remembered the first time I thought of kissing Peter. The thought was a flash, an emotional Rorschach test and I smiled. It was like a movie kiss, an abstract heaven - not the breathy, ****** kisses of real life.
“Where’d you go?” Lisa asked, grinning.
Some emotions are too thick for words.
.
.
Songs for this:
Good Luck, Babe! by Chappell Roan
Disco Boots by Gavin Turek

She just watches it

with indifference, smiling --


irritatingly.

The afternoon’s drippy and muddy,
And kids are kept out of Dad’s study.  
There’s nothing to do
But mope the day through
Or living-room rugby with Buddy.

Being bored deeply

is a vague experience --


of all that exists.

Something shiny there,

I stop and kick it away --


pff, just a dead star.