The day after us

Inside the creases of my skin
Mixed with the song of fuzzy rain
The evening’s kindness wearing thin
Your touch – the thought that ripped my brain
I dreamed you up, I told those streets
I knew the night could choose to hear
My heart kept busy counting beats
While raindrops masked the single tear

Currently listening to Malaika (Angel) by Miriam Makeba (RIP, Mama Africa, the world misses you)

A promise

I can’t sleep. I keep thinking. Through the darkness, I can see the contour of your cheekbone. You have that necklace on you, my goodbye gift. The leather frame goes around the little silver spear end, sitting above several rows of red beads. You even chose a matching outfit. Do you treasure it? How long will you keep it like this, close to your heart?

You take my hand, close your eyes and start rhyming... Your words run around the room, no, they jump, full of energy and emotion, while you lie there, exhausted yet unable to sleep, smiling at me, rapping for me, squeezing my palm.

I miss you like Kenyan soil misses the rain in the dry season. I am not sure if you miss me as much. I am not sure if you are able to miss, to love, to feel. I heard that you aren’t. I don’t know if people are saying the truth... but you are the people.

You spoke sweetly to me, you spoke honestly. You gave me little gifts of attention, but you’d take them away whenever your work came into play, showing me how hard it would be, were we together. You’d shower me with compliments, yet you’d openly warn me that I’d get burnt.

I didn’t ask you all the questions I needed to ask in those short two days. I didn’t feel like interviewing you. In my head, I was weighing the risks. I am tired of being hurt. My heart has been broken and mended just enough for me to lock it up. When I suffer, my work suffers, and my ability to give, which determines who I am. Something tells me you might feel the same.

You extended your pinkie and we made a little union, a promise to each other. How binding is it? What am I to make of it? Can you tell me frankly and ease the tension within me? Can you keep it... or let it go? It hurts to be here in the middle.

Image credit: ramo138
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