My fingers swipe away
Every instinct telling me to text you
Your fingers swipe away
Every instinct telling you not to respond
And every response takes longer
And I can hold out a little more
But I wonder if I'm in your head
Cause I can't do this anymore

He doesn't remember anything.

The dotted boats on the sea,
birds peeking from the bush,
a smiling ******* a valley,
a couple with a baby in the bus..

The places, years, situations
he looks at with a snug vagueness.

But he revisits them calmly
happy in the bliss of not straining
to remember.

The spaceship he boarded with them
is now cosmic dust.

Let them be left in that capsule of time.

The day flickers like a filament
before fusing into night.
Another day struck off from life.

Night and day
all will unfold the same way
the owl will prey a mouse
a woman will chant and pray
scent of incense will fill the house
the drongo will blend with the evening
and with melancholy seek one last insect.

The enveloping darkness makes me unseen.

Nothing stops
the earth will continue to spin.

I'm not an 'ingénue' anymore - that’s been vitiated.
I'm not innocent, pure, naive or vulnerable -
which are technically, 'ingénue' requirements
(I don’t make the rules).

That being said, if no one has an objection,
in terms of narrative trajectory, I'd like to be
considered a 'fémme fatale' until further notice.
.
.
Songs for this:
HEATED by Beyoncé
Hysterical Us by Magdalena Bay

11am 08.12