Tuesday, 28 July 2015

For Faty, wherever I may find him

You said you think I write well
Now you have me staring at my chipped nails.
I'd like us to have memoirs like ice-cream sticks
That we can laugh at and reminisce fondly.

I could sing you verses about my longings
All the clouds that burst and you rained down 

But they would not be
About you.
Only about my fatal obsession of you.

I tune out the traffic singing behind you
And think, you are the crooked junction
That I repeatedly try to find my way across
An encryption that I coded myself, and then forgot.

My fragile eardrums tingle with your questions
I think you are, where mathematics fails
And I take to philosophy.