personal post-it

whenever you feel like a clone-in-training, think of the Beeman spectrograph

no time

she smiled
I did not
ask why
no time

she waved
I did not
ask why
no time

she sighed
I did not
ask why
no time

she cried
I did not
ask why
no time

she left
I did
ask why

she said:
no time

I see ...

Him in my arms looking
up at the world
a scruffy little monkey
all hairy and sticky,
icky slippery little eel
that he was then.

Him on my shoulder
grudgingly giving up air
greedily gulped down in his
glorious quest for
size and speed,
to go forth into
the great big world,
unaware that it
is in fact struggling
to keep up
with this little man who
grabs time by its neck
and tosses it away
disdainfully as if
it matters not to ...

... Him who wears a bemused
little grin stolen from an Imp
I'm sure, now wandering
the neverlands wailing,
in existential angst,
for without a grin what
is the point of being
an Imp?

Him lying beside me
having made this faultline
in our bed where she now lies
an unreachable distance away
as He sleeps, parting
effortlessly these
once familiar seas
(Of Life, Of Desire, Of Tenderness)
that delivered him like
a little lost bottle with
its forgotten message of Love

Anger

Slow embers
burn through
memories, sweet and innocent.
It flares not but
feeds on love
which depletes like
a little pool of
fossil fuel -
Non Renewable.
It hurts as my
soul blisters from
the unaccustomed heat;
but why then
do I sit here alone
in the dark
fanning the flames?