I get ideas sometimes.

[slowlyunfolding]

The ideas do happen every now and again to me. Usually they happen in that space in between sleep & waking. I think that explains ... well ... everything that is to follow.

A goodish while ago, I read a poem that Misha had posted on his Twitter. I remember being vaguely somethinged by it, but the feeling was intangible, elusive, persistingly haunting. A couple of weeks ago, I startled awake, scribbled in my notebook that I left on my bedside table & immediately fell back asleep. I swear these words that came tumbling out have been jostling for attention ever since.


This is Misha's poem:

June Second

This morning we walked outside,
And the street was covered in freshly fallen jacaranda petals;
A blanket of floppy purple snow.

I complained.
“We wait all year for those flowers
and they’re gone in a week.”

“Hmm,” she said
crushing wilted purple blossoms with her shoes
“Hmm what?”
“I haven’t been waiting for anything.”

But she has.
I know it.



Here is mine:

Before the Fall

She came to me
each night for weeks
pressing one of my petals
delicately to her cheek
infusing me briefly with her warmth.

That day while walking
under my bereft limbs
she stole a quick glance at your downcast eyes
picked up a petal; then pressed her lips
against my velvety skin;

Gently bruising
what she thought
had already been lost;
waiting for you
to surrender.

Now I feel all exposed and weird.