a thud, and it rolls,
covering itself with dust and
dirt.
it’s contribution to
the rusty-red artwork (like many before it)
is gently brushed on the canvas,
white on black,
new on old.
a step, then two,
as a sea of cold eyes shift,
moving away.
murmurs follow their currents,
and soon,
only one
remains in the empty sea.
A pair of eyes, startlingly still,
as though asleep.
only when the skies turn as
red as the land does
it watch the last sunset it’ll
ever see.
what do you expect me to do?
come up to you, on my knees,
beg, cry, hold on to the fabric of
your ripped jeans, look
up at you,
eyes brimming with tears.
to fix whatever hole i left in you,
that i’ve left in myself.
what should i do, what can
i do,
when i can’t even say that
one word to those i’ve
touched.
sorry
that i can only say these words,
hiding behind an unreachable wall, where
the boundary of consequences are blurred
you see,
i am a coward, scared of what’s to come.
who am i to stand, to
face those who might hurt me.
some have said i am strong, that i can face and swallow
the pain; that i don’t break down.
laughable, how there are so many misunderstandings,
so many masks that people fall for in this world.
like my mask, a smile tattooed with bright colours,
decorated with a hand that reaches out to others, that
pats them on the back and
waves back. who am i to say that
one day this mask of mine won’t fall,
break so that that smile cracks
and that oh-so-loving hand falls back.
…
a warning to those who may
follow the same path as me.
there are many forks in this journey called life.
take one, take many, and stray far far away from
my road, filled with twists and turns and
cracks, repaired over and over, until
it can no longer be saved.
what was it,
on that day the sun cried
it’s happy tears, when
those children, a boy and girl,
frolicked among a field
of daisies, white
and frayed.
we were sitting on
a bench,
brown and wooden,
just like the few others
littered around.
it was so obvious,
(i realise)
the way your face held
onto a fake mask that you had created.
what was it,
as our thighs slightly touched,
so little that i’m sure
you didn’t notice, as we
roamed so far apart, our minds in different worlds;
yours, i think, was
not too far from those
frayed daises, trampled upon by
a boy and a girl.
i remember, on that day,
the breeze greeted us
playfully, tapping us on the shoulder, only to laugh as
it ran away, hiding.
i remember, when i looked over;
your eyes were empty,
looking in the direction of
the children, and i
could almost see the slightest hint of
a tear,
slowly running down your
cheek.
you can’t catch up to time,
i realise (it’s too fast).
so may i ask one question, just
one last one: when was it
too late.
too late to hold your hand, to
talk to you, to
use my hands, which warmed up yours,
to gently take off the mask that
you used to cover up any
misconception,
any fear that you saw,
to reveal your face,
forever wet from countless tears.
and as those children played
among deceased daises,
_you know, the ones with
your hazel eyes and
my dirty-blonde hair_
where were you,
as the breeze no longer jested,
and i sat on the bench with
cold hands.