Ashes of memories

The cigarette butt began to burn,
And that foul, tarrish smell enveloped the fingers -
The last pinch of ash,
like withering human-years,
falls off the cigarette in a silent weep.
She turned to her reflection in the mirror,
And her charred lips spoke of a love
taken away.

In the end the butt has to be thrown off -
Having sheltered the line of tobacco
Until its embers melt in the altar
of human yearning
and unspoken pains.

Her eyes glinting like sunshine upon the river,
Her face rigid as platinum,
She picked the last spot of ash
and tasted its scorched remains;
They arouse memories of the nights
When cigarette butts and ice cubes splayed on the floor
Alongside naked bodies and satin sheets.

The taste of alcohol from the lips that parted to whisper her name,
The smell of smoke settling into her hair
like his skin on hers,
The nights that turned into day without a flicker of sunlight,
And half-eaten pizzas awaiting stray consumption.

The cigarette is burnt again,
And the butt has singed her fingers,
But the smell of love that wraps her being
lives on through the ashes of memories.

Getting back

There lay the shards
Of what was once my heart;
The pieces that belonged
To a beautiful whole,
That once belonged to you.

I looked at those pieces again
And they still were beautiful -
There was the tear from the day we fought first,
There a wound from the day you dated someone else,
And there the guilt from when I slept with your roommate,
After you lied to me of your new date.

I cannot hold you again as I did that night
When it was raining and we were caught under the awnings
Of an old house on the way to the cinema;
I cannot touch your face as I used to
When you cried about how mean your boss was.
I wish I could see you just once more,
To tell you I do not hate aubergines
Or hold your hands and watch that football match together.

There are those who move on,
And those who pretend to;
I haven't yet figured out
Where I belong,
But no confusion on one damn thing -
I love you still,
And I love you lot.

We have no friends aching to get us back on terms,
Haven't shared phone numbers, no emails -
But Shania showed me your Facebook profile
And I did not send you a friend request.

I love you still, seven years on,
I love your memories,
I love your old gifts;
But the broken heart cannot be pieced together -
Without deepening my gashes - and hurting you again.

The moment

It’s in the moment that time freezes.

All our lives,

We all wait for the moment.

The moment when love will shine on us,

From the beyond,

From the horizons of the universe,

From the depths of our souls….

The moment,

When nothing is defined

And yet you find a meaning

Unlike you’ve ever met.

The moment,

When everything is distorted

And yet the shape guides you,

Protects you,

Ensconces you….

The moment,

Lasting forever in the depths of your memories,

Walking up to you unawares

And throttling you into a self you never knew existed.

That moment,

My friends,

Is what you and I are worthy of.

The destination set upon us by Time.

The movement held still,

The silence of voices

Penetrating the calm of our existence.

It’s in the moment that time freezes.

Patients

Love demands appreciation,
It craves remuneration,
It asks to be given time,
It lives on constant attention.

Alas, my darling,
We have nothing for each other
except our sighs.
We are terminally ill patients of love.

Snippets from a poet's mind

I.
The eyes once refused
to see the colours of hope.
And now the darkness has settled upon them.

II.
We heard a song together once
And rode upon its lyrics to heaven.
I came crashing down when the CD got stuck,
And you got stuck in the audio output wire.

III.
Those memories pain me yet.
What do they do to you, dear?

IV.
I want to be like the tides,
That rejoice in nothing but the frolic
of carrying memories
but not in burden, not in pain.

V.
I look out of the window every time
I hear the mating screech of kites.
They care not for a dime
Of my two watchful eyes.

VI.
I watch the clock tick,
Listen to the chirp of birds,
Feel the breeze from the ceiling fan,
Follow the notes of my thoughts.

I'm quite busy, darling.
No time for sorrows, loneliness or pain.

VII.
True to my word,
I didn't speak to you so long.
But what about the million conversations
We carry out in my head every day?