I ask for
a pair
of sleep mask
as gift
I need to
train myself to
know you
even when my eyes
are dim
I want us
to be loving
in sunlight
and
in darkness
Tag: love
Pictograph
#cassaquote – 47
Perfect love stays
in the moment,
beyond that,
love is ruined.
Confession
I don’t love like I once loved
Without fear, without reservation
I run fast these days
From everything
Call me a coward
I accept
I am sorry
For making the unspeakable decision
To watch you drown
So I stay afloat
Hidden
I am not ready
For the world to see
My deepest thoughts
About you
I bury them
Between lines of a story
In an ode to nature
Even
Among a bunch of old photos
Fading away faster
Than my memory
Love Is A Drug
Bubbles fill an azure sky
encapsulate rainbows
promise of tomorrows
That’s how love feels
How many bubbles
are we chasing
blow by blow
to feel alive
to feel loved
When did I write about love last?
Open field of lavenders
decorated with purple dreams
filled with smoky scent
from the sprigs
broken between our skin
Perhaps
that’s enough
to make the moon
pregnant
Sweetheart
Denise’s Six Sentence Story prompt – Box
My nose is blocked, and I keep sneezing.
My 4 year old son is running towards me with his arms throwing in the air. I quickly grab a box of tissues and wedge it between he and I, ‘Sweetheart, don’t come near me, I got a cold.”
He squashes the tissue box, wraps his arms around my neck and kisses my nose, “Mummy, you’re worth catching a cold for.”
My heart melts into a goo. My eyes are red and moist with a mix of a cold and an overwhelming feeling of love.
We Are Back at Where We Were
Memory of you running in full force all the way to the end of the jetty, leaped in the air holding your knees, gravity sank you in the reflection of the cloudless sky, stayed with me.
You packed up and left for the concrete jungle city life. Many nights, I listened to your voicemail messages, with deafening clubbing music, slurry speech, and lots ‘I love you, Silly’.
You missed my wedding, my 30th birthday party, my brother’s funeral and my divorce party. I didn’t know how to stay friends with you. You’d never there for me like you used to when you were here.
Every time I sat here, I looked at the jetty, remembering all the laughter,all the time we spent together, wondering what had gone wrong.
Now I am sitting here, with you by my side. I still haven’t had an answer. In my frail voice, I ask, “Why did you leave me and never came back all these years till now?” You wrap me tighter in the shaw and hold me closer, “Because I love you, Silly.” I still don’t quite understand, but I am glad you are back here with me in my last days. My heart is full again.
Honest And Hard Earned
A farm girl decided to survive in a big city.
She tried all decent work to bring in income
to pay for their daughter’s education,
so she would not need to follow her footsteps.
She sold rubber sandals in the market.
She mixed cement, dug trenches
and laid bricks on construction sites.
She is 5 feet tall in sun tanned skin.
She rode on a 28 inch wheel bicycle
carrying an ice box filled with ice blocks.
She waited outside her daughter’s school
in many scorching summer afternoons.
Children swamped out the school gate
at the sound of the bell.
That was the best time of her sales.
Children were reaching their hands high
to pay for the ice blocks.
It looked like a vigorous bidding scene.
She barely kept up to collect the coins
while giving out the ice blocks.
Yet her eyes always spotted her little girl
once she appeared outside the school gate.
She reached into the bottom right corner of the ice box
to retrieve the special perfectly frozen vanilla ice block,
handing it to her daughter standing on the sideline.
She never kept any eye contact though,
for the fear of the children would laugh at
her little girl has a mother working as a petty street vendor.
She received great education opportunities
from her mother’s hard labour and vision.
Every time she sucks on a vanilla ice block,
her mother’s sun tanned forehead
soaked with hot summer sweat
comes into her mind.
The melting ice block,
her melting heart,
shows up as streams of tears
she is too proud to hold back.
– dedicated to my mother
Flicker of Thoughts 