it rhymes with lust

if only: a poem

so close yet so far away,
as the cliche saying goes,
but you will never know
how sweaty my palms get
when our knees rub against
each other as we sit
in a group of people and
all i can do is admire the way
you engage in conversation
your lips move to a rhythm
that i long to feel on the
back of my neck as you
whisper sweet nothings

i’m in a trance, i’m in a daze
and i can’t help but picture
your face just centimeters
away from mine
tell me you see the signs

when you gently place your
hand on my shoulder,
can you feel my body jump?
when you look at me and simper,
can you tell that i’ve
forgotten how to breathe?
there’s a room full of people
but you’re the only one i see
and why do i keep on saying
these cliche things?
whenever you speak,
i hear angels sing..?
or something like that..

so much time has gone by
but my eyes seem to be
glued to you
i’m surprised nobody has
questioned my sanity
because i’m pretty sure
my head is not attached
to my body

and with a snap of a finger
i’m back to reality
where i have to pretend
we’re just friends
and not in some fantasy
where you’re mine
and i’m yours
cause that’s not how the story goes
we’re stuck in my daydream
and i’ll never be able to show
you the love i’m
capable of giving you

My evenings are secluded
and away from all the hustle,
a simple walk down a path
I never forget.

I watch the moon as it
yawns back to life,
and the retiring twilight
as it waves goodbye.

I remind myself
about the cycles,
and what’s meant to be,
and all about destiny.

I take the vibes in
and walk back to my doorstep,
I face the frame
and I still lose my breath at the sight of you.

You were my weapon,
and we are nothing
but a lost battle.



I have learnt some common sense
– Ovid, ‘Through With Love’


And I have drowned in words today,
too many phrases and perceptions,
out of the dark and into the open.

‘Something like the hmm of lust? Last?’
‘It’s either collision or rhymes with it.’
‘For my friend’s cousin’s girlfriend.’

Amores in my bag, tongue of sense
and soul, pulverise, vaporise me,
empty me of meaningless voices.


Through the cracks slip merciful
connections – meet me after,
we’re escaping, we’re walking
right off the face of the earth.


On my way to the exit
an interception. ‘Hey girlie,
I need you.’ Words I’ve wanted
to hear for a long time from
someone with his scent.

‘Sign this off for me.’
He’s clutching a large book
to his chest. Disappointment
lasts until he opens it up,
exhibiting experience

I’ve collected in echoes:
the ageless frame,
the gestures and accent
shared with all my heroes.
‘I think I’m the least nostalgic

person I know.’ Hand half
across the page, he quickly
covers the excess
of youthful sin. ‘I was twenty.’
Smooth skin, faceless body.

I peek at the date. ‘I was six.’
That is so the wrong thing to say.
He nods. ‘When I was six
I wanted to be a saint …
wore off quickly though,

I just liked the gory stories.
What do you write? Oh God no,
not poetry.’ - ‘Why not?’
- ‘Whenever I try to read it
I just don’t get it. I prefer paint,

unless someone reads it to me.’
I decide to be a reader instead,
to voice it all out loud, burn
my notebooks, and dedicate
myself to wordlessness.


Shamelessly twenty minutes late,
as the night falls outside I can feel it,
no windows but the sky inside me,
and the ultra-bright moon, higher.


On my way up stone stairs I spot
your knees, your shoes,
such familiarity.
As we snake up the street,
my speech returns
with tales you deride:
‘It’s just work, it’s just talk,
it doesn’t mean anything.’

Riding home post-dessert,
scrawls talk from walls:
‘Closed because of funding problem.’
Literally – the foundation’s dug up.
‘Have sex, not guns.’
Instant improvement of a situation.
‘Going down?’
I’m still climbing.


The roses, on the pink side of cream,
barely scenting of summer, are open.

Amores. Translations and line drawings
in which to find better words all night.