In June, I saw
A beautiful white spider
On my backpack.
It was eating a mosquito.
I will write a poem
About it later.

Misty little corner
In a blue Room
Calls out to the mourner
Immersed in doom.

Grey furniture makes
Greyer memories
Faults, taunts and insipid
Fallacies.

Blue is the colour of the eye
It's inside is filled with a neon so fly.
The pink tree of life ******
Venus flytrap dissolves in juices.

The eye looks, the eye appalls.
The eye resigns, the eye dissolves.

The pink trap reopens again.
Lust curls into the corner in vain.
The misty blue corner like a white canvas,
Fills with all its colours again.

Pink is the monster,
Blue is the perpetrator,
Green is the debilitator.

And I, the wild colourless mind,
Sits by the wall and conjures this mishap.
All dreams are flies,
And I, the Venus flytrap.

from the moment i met you, i knew i would unlock my heart and invite you inside. something about your smile, the whimsy in your eyes, wild, dangerously curious. warm, waiting to whisk me away. you knocked me off my feet, plucked me from my path like a flower. you introduced me to the sun like an old friend.
                        when you lift your eyelids it’s as if you’re taking off my skin, exposing my soul, layer by layer. time awaits for you to look into my eyes so he can take a break. look at me, just look at me. look at me looking at you. i'll reflect your light for once, turn my windows into mirrors. the moment you brush my hand, touch my elbow, tap my shoulder, teacups stand still and my head’s the one spinning mad. be careful, hold still, or your every movement will send me to the moon, shattering my composure and sticking it back together in some form of awe. i’ve been there too many times already.
                       the sun rises in your irises. every morning. i swear it does, i’ve seen it. you blush when you unzip your heart too suddenly. you get shy when i take your photo and i know you don’t like it but you know it’s good for you. you see magic in everyone. you are gentle on my mind and ******* my heart. you are quick on your feet but clumsy when you're tired. you choose the dark side of the moon to explore so you can make your own light.  you hum under your breath when no one’s listening. you are so close with the sun, it burns you every time you meet. it burns you every single time. you’re slow to trust and quick to love. and it burns you. but you still love.
                       And if you are in love, you are the lucky one. respect is my upmost priority. her voice is why i hold my tongue. the way you look at her is why i hide my blush. the photos you take is why i hinder my breath. holding her hand is why i walk on the wrong side of the sidewalk, timing my steps so our fingers won’t brush. your love is why i’m afraid. petrified. it’s augustly love, love you deserve. and if you are happy, you are the lucky one. i wish nothing more for you. happiness for you. for you, i would demand the sea fit into a single bucket, wish the stars to rearrange their light to suit your perspective, ask the flowers to grow backward to grant spring a second chance. for you, i would fit my love into a friendship. i could turn the lightening in my veins into wind instead.
                      in the back of the taxi, after raising the sunset from the sand and racing the rain home, the moonlight in your hair, the breeze in mine, i told you about a love that was complicated. i wanted so to tell you the truth. and i almost did. it would have been easy. we were opening up together. it would have been so easy.
                        you’re the reason.
                       the reason i reply with a smile and not a kiss on my lips, i chase ghosts and not shadows, i slow dance alone, to the beat of a drunk-with-dreams heart. you are the reason i answer no, i pretend i don’t know. you are the reason i want to say yes.
                         when i knocked on your door beneath the stars, when i wore your coat like a hug, when we danced on the cliffs I carved, when i peeled back vulnerability and showed you my stitches and you didn't turn away but you caressed every single scar, when i asked for your name but really wanted to hear your story, i was searching for something more. so here, as i write, attempting to interpret my modern-art-piece of a heart, i ask only one thing in return for honesty: bring back the sun, paint the sky like you painted me smitten. i grew out of my old life, met you on an adventure. i’m on my way up, growing out of this pain. and while i have peace in where we reside, i hope part of you is okay hearing this, because part of me needed to say it before it was suddenly done.

                     here we are.
                     here we go.
                     letting go.

                     after all, there are other ways to meet the sun.

             sincerely,
             the moonlight

I have a headboard on my bed.
I don’t like when the pillows fall,
slid between the mattress and wall,
with nothing to prop up my head.

I do not have a footboard though.
(It’s a footboard, right? I’m not sure.)
It seems a bedset’s haute couture—
useless ornament just for show.

I also don’t have those siderails.
You know. The kind that toddlers use,
so they don’t fall off while they snooze.
For now, I’ve outgrown such travails.

See, three is my lucky number,
and there can be no objections
if from one of three directions,
I climb in to start my slumber.

Now, though, all that having been said,
I really haven’t slept okay.
Wait! I’ll just sleep the other way!
I have a footboard on my bed.

Outside two squirrels foraging
Inside one hundred and one keys tapping
Three buttons clicking and one wheel spinning
Eight hours a day sitting badly
In an ergonomic desk chair
Soft fingers tap on plastic and glass
Weak muscle memory of calluses and splinters
And sunburn blisters from another life
Outside the old prairie wind howls like a phantom
Lost in urban canyons buffets the panes
Drives the torrents of freezing rain
Hard droplets tap on metal and glass
While inside our high-rise terrariums we sit
Generating transient value that flits
Up into the clouds till whenever
You tap plastic to trade your invisible worth
For a hot meal in a disposable bowl
Ponder and sip in another life you could be
Spending all day in the freezing rain
Hunting squirrels for soup

I sat outside today eating
Sushi and miso soup in the sun
Some squirrels came by
And stared at me hopefully
I put a bit of miso soup in the lid
And set it out for them
But they weren't interested
Then a gust of cold wind blew the lid over
And the soup was spilled
One of the squirrels went for the crumbs
In an old potato chip bag instead

.
Merrytree the Holly sprite
danced across the snow,
no mark did she leave in sight
wither whether she doth go.

So joyful and magickal is she,
darting in betwixt the flakes,
her wild spirit cavorting free,
laughing at mischief she makes.



© Pagan Paul (30/08/18)