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.

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