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
Unselfishly
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.