Between your laughs and chatters

Is complete silence, a forlorn face.

How I can make you smile somehow?

There are others who do the magic trick,

But if they sing like songbirds, then I'm a stone.

Why does my voice lie buried within my throat?

saturday noon, we sit on solitary metal plates,
i see tomorrow’s windows through your wise old eyes
overlooking grey skies, the monotonicity of life,
“everyone wakes up, works, and sleeps at the same time..."

your voice trails off as the train taking our rest arrives.

I recall when we’re all smiles,

Paper flow’rs and hot-pink dyes,

Virgils in the pitch black night,

Scrape and file till screws sit tight,

The toxic whiff of burnt plastic.

you fly too close to the fire, my dear

while i

can only watch and sink helplessly into the sea.

you started singing one of my favourite songs

and i know it is yours too,

then you talked excitedly of your adventures,

i wish i was there too.

maybe one day i’ll make snowmen with you,

but more than that,

i wonder why i didn’t sing along too.

sirens blare and shutters close,
we sit calmly in our humble abode
until we smell the smell I’ve smelled
a thousand times and going strong.
we joke and skip idly around the stairs
in a fashionably orderly manner,
like in an empty amusement park.

“the fire smells good”, says someone,
and i nearly choke at the absurdity,
but i have to agree, it smells like
nostalgia, the plumes of charred plastic
filaments, remnants of 3d printers
bringing me back to better days.

as the chaos rolls along in the background,
we order truffle pasta from the vending machine,
giggle at the firemen who lost their way
and watch the sorry-excuse of a smoke
trailing away into the blindingly blue sky
as the exhausted sirens blare once again.

Shall I compare thee to a sunny day?
Our slow, bright morning starts blurring at nine,
Back to those dew-polished grass where we lay,
Your gentle fingers intertwine with mine
But hold on, what do they feel like again?
Were they soft, dry, or calloused, I forgot,
They overrode themselves with muscle pain
And the romance runs thinner than I thought:
I stare at space knowing I can’t be yours,
While you take over the physical me,
The only sense I felt was that of floors,
Blurring the edges of its boundary…

‘Tis too hard, no love weighs more than I recall,
Perhaps I wasn’t meant to write sonnets after all.