It's now been years,
moments frozen behind glass.
with our fingers interlaced,
like lattices of coloured paper,
neatly folded into swans.
Bold, elegant, proud.
a small army of comfort,
in the small battlefield.
with rows of paper flowers,
all blue, lavender and crimson.
once alive with our laughter.

squares of paper,
left strewn across the floor.
torn, ripped and split.
now burnt with hate,
burnt with ruined passion.
leaving a charred memory,
scattered among the ashes,
drifting away, gently.

Like the swans you used to fold.

Marching on a field of white
lines striping the way.
Piping on my clarinet-
marching band back in the day.

Drilled through the heat - harsh light,
sets perfected by the night.
Playing solo’d make me fly
but together we can cry.

Move as one, hitting dots, our bodies spoke music,
the songs we once knew, now distant and elusive.
Reeds left unopened, my mind's gone acoustic-
echoes remaining from memory once lucid.

I’ve tasted the echoes of a flame; inhaling silhouettes of the night’s
smoke; wasting time under the clouds of downhill voices, speaking
low on my worth.Where I recall my mother’s voice as the sturdy
cane of discipline – as we read about disciples who were just
ordinary men; we were orderly raised, where being scolded a
third time about coming to bath at five, was just a part of our
ordinary days. My most trusted companions where the imaginary
friends I made up – who knew they'd get me in trouble, if I was
found talking to myself while I play.

And I don’t feel that old, but nostalgia has been resting on my soul;
the better parts of it, and also the worst – where I grew up with the
biggest fear around girls. Though part of that fear still remains, only
we changed the fear of girls, to a fear of falling in love with the
wrong girl. “But I love her though,” by that statement I'll know
I’ve definitely fallen underneath the floor.

I hardly questioned my flaws; until I grew a little order and started
to be so aware of them all – then I grew a little older, to soon realize
they’re all just a part of us all. And I don’t feel that old, even when
the wisdom I get isn’t always the same wisdom the youth can own –
still I hope their purpose is the one thing they can own.

I have to keep a piece of self-worth in my silver thoughts, interlaced
like a plait – even when I think up a few corny bars; I still see
myself as platinum. Signed here... a Platinum baby.

I miss you,
I miss your good morning texts,
Your messages lighting up my phone,
The special ringtone I had for you,
Calling you mpenzi -
Because that’s what you are,
My darling.

I miss your voice,
Your laughter,
The warmth in your words.
I miss how we spoke of everything,
How we made each other feel alive.

I miss your kind heart, beautiful soul and spirit.
I miss your wild ambitions,
Your endless *** of kindness,
Your relentless singing of love ballads after your favourite drink,
And your desire to truly be a great person.

I miss Kivuli’s sweetest face,
The comfort you both brought me
Whenever I was lost in sadness.
I miss your smooth, dark skin,
Your handsome face,
Your gorgeous body in all its glory,
Your kindness and gentleness.
Your laughter.

I miss how natural we were together -
Effortlessly almost.
Perhaps that’s what went wrong,
Was it too easy, and is life not?

I miss the hope we shared,
The late-night conversations,
And the way your deep voice
Would echo through my heart.
What happens now?
I don’t know.
But I miss you with every fibre of my being.
I haven’t stopped loving you -
And I don’t know if I ever will.
Come back to me, mpenzi.
Come back to us.

Wooden,
hardened,
treated as a door with none but emptiness beyond.

Walk through me, pass through the scented door.
Cherish the ever so little sanctuary the door provides.
Hold dear to the beautiful scents of the door.

A door holds no lasting imprint on those walking through it,
yet every grip on the handle leaves a stain.
Some are what you carry along,
others merely a passerby.

How have I gone from one to the other?
Taught by life, for if your back is to a wall, none must stab it.
How must I live when eternal bonds know not the path to my heart?

Forever stained by the shadow of solidarity,
protected from the burning warmth I once craved,
bare to the cold I once hated.

Truly, time is all.

I strip myself.

Bones, soul and flesh.

I got on the scale. Check.

I’m way past my ideal weight— again.

I guess no amount of exercise

Or calorie-deficit diet would do

Because I didn’t account for

how many calories memories use.

Well, since I’m in no heart-diet,

I can afford to have a few—

So go on,

Add some extra kilograms to the soul.