The Battleground

Aloof

Perplexed

Stupid. I thought she would never think about me.

                        Confused

                        Losing patience

                        Inept. Her heart was in need of water.

My remoteness couldn’t read the sign.

Then in one cool

afternoon

I asked her to

come to my place. I freaked

out before

she could get

here.

She likes the conservative dress code

ironed skirts and white blouses that get washed, folded

and carefully placed at the corner of the suit case.

To wait for the Sunday service or a date.

Her shoes are between flat and high,

leaving her legs lean and clean

albeit the sun tint

As a result of her distaste for long pants.

In my crib

I kiss her

Love her

Adore her.

                        In her crib

                        She kisses me

                        Loves me

                        Adores me.

My heart is in a serious need of water.

I prepare a dozen

breaking conversation

sentences. I will

start by being

sorry that I had to

raise the topic. I couldn’t

gather courage to

speak about it, so I

curse myself and go quiet

for three months.

In between I indulge in imaginations and writing

always fighting to keep her away from my head.

I buy books from the streets, Wensley Clarkson

Hollinghurst and Adichie’s yellow sun from textbook centre.

But I get fucked up when my book man offers me a present,

of Lucia Whitehouse’s The Bed I Made.  She comes back to my thoughts

like a poorly fed ghost that has to catch up.

In my head

I make babies with her

Shower with her

for one last time

Then I give up.

                        In her head

                        she makes babies with me

                        showers with me

                        and gives up.

she steps into the empty valentine.

She calls Alvin, on the morning of the valentine

Maybe Alvin is the one,

because he has been pestering her for eons

Eons, eons

Orato eons.

She does it with tears

As if she just squeezed onions.