Passengers

We’re all in passing cars like Venus to Mars.
At least that’s what they told me when I was a kid.
I stumbled upon her, she washed my feet,
from the basin with the dirt submerged underneath,
the filth of four decades and no release.
Water from downpours, now silent in relief.
Three words in union, a sentiment with attached strings,
held lofty with dowel rods, pivoting angel wings.
We’re just strangers now.
When the last hug has been passed around.
Strangers in the crowd.

undertow

Love, the worst addiction anyone could have.
Yet we keep coming back.
Place all your faith and trust in me
and we can live happily.

From ashen clothes, unwashed pillows
of former lovers proposed.
Coming back to the well, until our short-term memories let go.
Awoken by the truth,
Love will eventually pull you back in the undertow.

And it feels so good to drown

Connect.

I am missing.

I miss writing scribble resembling prose, conversations going nowhere, rhythmical inflections predisposed.

I miss hands of youthful vigor, broken moments, guiding lights and triggers.
Fighting exhaustive battles between two poles, long defeats, stumbling, whereabouts unknown.

I miss the sentiment and platitudes, taking cities one pavement at a time, reliance and gratitude, longing again for the first time.

I miss the fight, the excuse to stay,
slipping under the cover of night,
in the getaway car so I can run away.

I miss the days, darkened rooms, the palpable dismay,
looking for corners where I can hide in the fray.
Under shelter, accepting surrender, the ambient light of this new day.

I am missing.