Tears

And he asked
Is it over now?
Deeply troubled
I stared
Yes, I replied
I believe it is.

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The worst

I think the worst thing is the waiting
For a message
A phone call
An appearance
A like
A comment
A nudge
A touch
A hello
How stupidly you just sit there
For a sign
That in most cases never comes
How you count the minutes
The passing of time
And that my dear
That actually hurts.

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To the future

She said she needed stories to tell her grandchildren, that’s why she did it. We all sat silenced at the dinner table. Her words held so much more depth than simple stories. Surely her motivation for adventure had to come from elsewhere. No, she pointed out as we asked her and she continued explaining her thoughts. She recalled that one of the greatest childhood memories we all had was listening to our grandparents’ wildly vivid, sometimes unimaginable stories. Whether there’d be truth to each chapter no one ever knew. With innocent eyes we were blissfully carried away to years before our own existence where things were completely different, or so the elderly claimed. We couldn’t question them because we hadn’t been born yet and thus had no legitimacy to do so. The adventures and mischief told of were exciting and unlike our parents’ stories, there wasn’t much of a moral at the end because frankly, grandparents’ anecdotes didn’t require that. Grandparents were allowed to be foolish. Old age justified petty crimes, the cases being dismissed a long time ago.

She continued telling us how she one day came to realize that she to-date had very few stories to tell her future grandchildren. What was she going to tell them? “Oh, children, I remember that one time when I got excellent grades” she mimicked with an old persons voice. We laughed. She was right. We had spent half our life playing it safe, saying no more often than yes, considering the future before acting in the present. But was that really the way it was supposed to work?

I don’t know if it was the excessive amount of wine which had us all nodding in unison. Somehow we all agreed. We needed to collect stories. And so, our adventure began.

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In between

A gaze
Prolonged
The beginning.

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A camouflage

Whispers in my ear
Mediocre
As clown laughs
Such a joker
Attention of all
Veiled smoker
Oh please dear fool
You’ve already chocked her.

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A calendar

It was a day that she claims to recall vaguely. A day where the world had come apart and the skies had opened with torrential rain to grieve. It was a day that she had tried hard to forget, to categorize at the far back, in the darkest corner of her head. A day where the universe was against her and all of nature’s forces seemed to agree. It was a day where she had decided, then and there, to give up. And the only thing that her memory had registered was the precise feeling of failure and hopelessness. And of course, the few notes in her calendar: to give up on love.

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A mother

To remain sane
And offer sound advice
When all is breaking
The world unstable
I don’t know how she does it.

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Not right

He says
It’s fine
It’s okay
I never loved you anyway

As if
There was never anything
And the grammar
Was incorrect
All words faulty
From the start

She replies
It was indeed
An accident
I always loved you in the wrong way.

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A hand

Like grassroots sprouting
The beginning of adornment
How to thank spring
A season changing
Without notice
And a hand
Grasping for another
All ever needed
A silenced gratitude
Reaching out
Accidentally on purpose.

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For you

I push him to challenge me
But he just gives in
Submissively
He accepts
I cross boundaries I shouldn’t
To provoke a reaction
Meekly
He stays
And as I empty my last breath
I ask him
Why this unwillingness
To throw in the towel
And he bends
Only to look up
With eyes speaking words
More mighty than imagined
Love
I believe that’s what he called it.

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