Framed

Suddenly the world seems clearer, 
Outlines aren't blurred any more, 
Colours seem brighter.
I have been framed!

Still, born

I read the lines she wrote, he wrote.
Cryptic clues to her mind.
Splotches of black and scarlet,
Things that made her laugh.

His smelt of petrichor, no rain where he is now.
Pictures of his mother’s land, father’s land.
Clouds, wind, his words.
Stopping short of soaked sadness.

Sipping coffee on a wood chair, yellow light,
Shoes zig-zag by the door.
Words, sounds, pictures,
Make away with the comfort.

Icy cold fingers, crack one by one
Borrowing warmth from an orange mug.
With an inelegant, clack-ophony – backspace, enter, delete.
It tumbled out – still, born.

One Night

What do you do on a quiet, lonely night?

You’re on your couch, you've smoked your second cigarette.

The fan is whirring, the lights are on.

The furniture is perfectly disorderly.

Everything is just as you like it.

Your book is compelling, and you’ve finished it.

The coke is perfectly flat, and you’ve drunk it.

Your bra is off, the cotton of your favourite shirt rubs against your breast.

It’s done, it’s complete - the moment you’d been waiting for.

Then why does your ear want to hear the coin drop on a new message?

Why do you want a friend to call to tell you how you’re being missed?

Why do you wish someone was pottering around in the next room?

Is the silence of the night so unnerving?

Why do I wish I was spooning with you,

On my couch, on my bed, on the carpet, on my floor?

We come here by ourselves, we go back alone.

Why then is it so strange to be in this solitary room?

Nesh

Give my fingers five minutes, they will turn cold. It starts out a normal day. Sun shining in through a window, warming me up enough to brew a cup of tea, flip open a cigarette packet and begin to die slowly. It’s not that the act of dying stops while we’re asleep but well, at least we don’t have to think about it. Our eyes are shut to the new wrinkles on our fingers, the shaking of our hands, lapses in memory, stray greys, the lack of energy to go to the after party and surprise at the fact that you have a headache when all you drank last night was two beers.  

I play with the sun. For someone who was born in the oppressive 50 degree heat of the desert, it doesn’t seem normal, but I like the sun. Most of the songs I’ve liked also talk about the sun.. coming.. here.. pretty darling. Anyway my fingers are now cold. It’s normally how they get. It’s usually the fingers, toes and the tip of my nose.

Many have found this quality endearing and offered to warm me up by holding my hand, or rubbing their bare feet against my cold ones under a warm blanket, or kissing my nose. One time, when the tip of my nose quickly refroze even after a few pecks, it was gently nibbled upon and then warmly kissed. 

Of course, now that I’m here and the only thing close enough to me at this point in time is a swivel chair, my hands glide gently down my thighs and then find themselves ensconced in a gap that’s created for them between the fabric that is cushioned by my butt and the skin of my chair. For a while it stays jammed there, and then it’s time to come out, because it becomes inconvenient to type with one hand, especially when that hand increasingly becomes jealous of not being the warmed one. Right. It works the hardest too.

So, I’m going to find a cup of hot lemon tea and hold it, I’m going to put my nose in the way of the vapour streaming out of the cup. I’m going to blow warm air into my clenched fists.  I’m going to cross my legs until they become numb.

I’m going to brush you aside, because you can’t flash that warm smile at this weird condition I have , which Google says is common among skinny women with blood that’s too thin. I’m going to brush you aside because your heart has turned cold.   

 Nesh: (Adj.): unusually susceptible to cold weather
Origin

·         Old English hnesce meaning feeble, weak, or infirm

·         16th century Dutch word nesch typically meaning damp or foolish

·         Old High German nasc, meaning 'to eat dainty food or delicacies'

Slinking away

I think I’m going to creep quietly,
Back into my safe corner.
Where you found me and,
lured me out with sweet lies.


No, this is not sad song,     
nor it is a cry ode to you.
Maybe an itsy bit,
but mostly it's an announcement.


I'm going back to be born again,
Into that quiet slimy place.
Where all is made new and clean,
from where a new me will come out.


No great heights have been conquered,
no new ground broken,
no weight lost,
no feet have learnt to dance.


But then in the new life,
I will do these things again.
And I will still seek comfort,
in scrambled eggs and bacon.