I’ve seen the way you smile
and the way you start giggling in your sleep
the way your face lights up for a brief second
when you’re overjoyed but nothing less
you can be a Jolly soul
past your serious, gloomy exterior
but you don’t like it
you call me childish at times
but it’s more fun that way
and I know that you know that too.
You’re exactly how I wanted you
Right here, right in the moment
and yet I’m suddenly not satisfied
You’re perfection personified
and yet I’m sat here feeling lost.
The feeling I felt when you weren’t here
when I was longing for you to come home
for you to crave me the way I craved you.
I’m empty, numb and yet I have everything.
What went wrong?
The vicious circle of wanting
what you can’t have has bitten.
“I, er… I’m sorry, I’m not from here and I wouldn’t know”, even though I do, but the fear’s grabbed a hold on me. The seconds ticking by heavily and I have a horrible dread and a hope for no more questions. A rush, a warmth, a current and yet no sign. The repetitive, clockwork, tireless system pulsating around, never stopping and you’re still not here.
“Is this the right line for Soho?”
“I really sorry, I don’t know”, the words almost sound believable. Almost, although they are this time around. The messages are still unsent, but even though I know you’re not here, you’re not even near here, I’m still needlessly fumbling to refresh every single second to avoid yet another confrontation. Another rush comes, a mob of lives with things to do, places to go, people to see, plans to make. The plans I need to make with you, the people we need to see, the places we need to go and the things we need to do. The back of my neck is warm with sweat at this point and each and every gust makes me shiver. At a final breaking point, the messages turn to read.
You’ve arrived at your destination, welcome home.
I had this piece sat around for a while, I’m still not convinced that it’s finished and I hope to revisit it one day. I like the partial ambiguousness anyway. Enjoy.
A yearning to go alfresco in the monsoon
The saliva from the haze above punches an exterior Descending, the aroma, a drizzly, sodden fragrance
A childlike moment
A sense of freedom
An abandonment of rationalisation
A rapid crash as the particles disperse wildly around.