Remember when we were younger?

In biology class when everything was tactile and new

Experimental and combustible

And we checked each others' pulses

To count and measure

To give reason to rhythm

And you found mine with ease

Cool fingers near the carotid

Unwanted sparks from lack of use

And when I went to you

Placing unclean hands between chin and collar

Trying to finds signs of life

And finding none

As you pressed my fingers further in

Insistent and sure of your steady heart

And it's ironic how years later

When your face is a fading memory

And your presence a ghost no longer haunting

That I realize I never knew

If you were really alive

.
     I stare down at the plate of toast and beans
     wondering why this was never part of my dreams.
     Looking for the future with an illusional pretence,
     hoping good apples will fall on my side of the fence.

And as the fork dances slow
around the legumes in spirals,
the tedium of a wasting life
bears the burden and scars
of missed opportunities in paralysis
and the colour of once bright lights
          glow black,
shining a shadow into the void
covering the bruises
that were once achievements of worth,
     now tender patches
          of failure.
I drop the fork ...

     … pushing away the plate and leaving food uneaten,
     my desire for its nutrition fought and beaten,
     Looking at the apple tree with sombre regret
     maybe its fruit will fall and save me yet.

And disappointment
is worse than anger,
it begins with the stench of loss
the nasal whiff of
what if …

And what if the little apple tree
drops all its fruit down to me?
Would I recognise fortune on my side
or fear the illusions and run to hide?


© Pagan Paul (17/02/18)

Is this what writers do?
Lure their readers to a false sense of security?

You know that I'm in love with you.
So you, with insincerity, play my heart strings like poetry.

I look at her and poison slips from my tongue-
Competition.
I smack my bubblegum in hopes that you can hear it across the room.
What does she have that I don’t?
A shield you pull out in unworthy discussions about...H E R.
You protect her as if she’s a wounded kitten found in a swampy sewer.
Disgust fills my empty veins as you inhale your menthol cloud.
All I can do is **** people with words, tongue ties, and depths of unknown worlds.
When all I wish you would tell her is:

I. Am. Done. Talking. To. You. About. Her.