Realisations That Strike On a Weekend

Sitting alone in crowded cafes,
walking barefoot on heated surfaces,
chasing the tree’s shade in the sun,
stubbing out the last cigarette,
biting on my overgrown fingernails,
searching my wardrobe for a familiar scent,
saving the last bite from my vanilla cake,
reading out my short stories out loud,
filling up the bitter minutes of traffic jams,
planting flowers, waiting for them to bloom,
waiting for the full moon when it’s new moon,
buying groceries that go stale in my kitchen,
lighting a candle and watching it burn out,

I realise:

I can never think enough of you.

Only you,
everytime,
pass me by,
and neglect my words,
like rose petals
trampled under the feet
of an unaware visitor –
still fresh;
still carrying the moisture
of the morning dew.

Waiting On a Girl

Looking for a girl,
waiting
at the corner of the street –
to say hello, to warmly greet.

I have a cigarette in hand.
Smoking,
I puff out smoke in the warm, evening air.
A cab stops; she gets down; pays her fare.

She wears red heels,
stumbles,
as she walks to the corner shop.
My cigarette burnt, I let it drop.

She is 21,
looks
with the curiosity of a young gazelle;
she leaves me sweating, looking pale.

I have no words for her.
Standing,
I watch her buy a cotton candy.
No whisky tonight, only brandy.

The shopping is done;
packing
her purple bag, she turns around;
hails for a cab; leaves, never to be found.

To follow her home would be
sinning;
So I let her pass by and leave.
Lighting another cigarette, I grieve.