Watching you wait
Tanned from the sun
Your glistening glow
On your week grown dark shadow
In your hot white shirt
Almost too hot to touch
Sitting on a Santorini wall
Your piercing dark features
Looking for me
Waiting for me
While I watch you

Too distracted to write
Or it can be called busy, right
Wish that was true too
Busy can be in the mind
On an overthinking overdrive

Losing the thoughts
Which are best kept
Wrapped in warm words
To be used for better days

Losing good thoughts
Is like losing a place
Where warmth is always safe
Losing many these days

Do words care
Do they know
What missing is like
Cause I miss words

Isn’t the written word
All that and more
The feeling
That fulfils
The writer within
Time to cerebrate
Yes
To celebrate

Coming to you from somewhere far and nuclear
this is a cry from the gut
that needs to be read in melody;
like a moonlight sonata:

Its’ fine. It’s okay; it’s my undoing anyway.
I wove counterfeit truths
with threads of convenience
till every last shred of dignity dried up.

I broke down
before dawn
before breakthrough
I saw shadows dry out in the sun.

I romanticised freedom
to the point of madness,
and burnt our palace to ash
out there in the lawn.

I may have pulled
the rug from beneath us
But you laid the broken
glass shards all along.

I tried to love someone else
but it isn’t working,
so I feel like smoking
while stalking your new girl like a hawk.

Happiness looks good on you
But I just don’t believe you.
Go ahead, carry on;
Just like you always do.

One day long overdue
You’ll find me at your door
asking what you meant by
‘’I’ll always be here for you’’

She is an enigma.
Written not by ink,
But carved in skin.
Each evening she fades by a cigarette.
With her, you will burn;
You will bleed.
Immersed by the smoke of her being,
You are in a room of mirrors.
Behind them she hides,
Only a reflection of her will you see.
She is an apparition.
Handing you a glass of elixir,
You consume her.
Soon the smoke fades away,
And the mirrors begin to shatter.
You are alone with her barren self.
And so you run.
Because it is not her who intoxicated you,
But the image she painted for you.
So she is left in shadow and dust,
As her heart is left to rot.