Dancing In The Wind

Every time you leave, my hours feel endless; stacking seconds against each other seems to take forever just because there are so many of them. I feel like a little café down the road with its windows thrown wide open, waiting for a pair of feet to scurry across the threshold, announced by a soft musical ding. I put out whimsical menu boards colored in chalk and bake word-cakes, only to throw them out resignedly as they go stale. Every day, I keep myself open for less and less time, hanging up the “CLOSED” sign with a sigh a little earlier every night. But I’ll never shut down. You know that, don’t you? That you can stay away for any amount of time, and then walk in out of the blue like nothing happened, and there will still be a sweet treat in here with your name on it.

Questions

I feel like asking you a lot of things.

Mediocrity

I choose mediocrity.

Maybe all I'll get to know henceforth
Are hours clocking in
Half-hearted attempts
At survival routines,
And all my tongue will ever taste
Are remnants of bland conversations
And stale affection.

Metrics

I am enveloped by a sudden sense of sadness. I cannot really put a finger on the why, though. There is a sense of premonition, as if everything that has led up to this point is going to swallow me whole. I feel empty, and incapable of love. This is unsettling, and I wonder if all of the preceding weeks and months and years were a lie, when I felt like I would burst with all the emotions whirling in my chest – am I but an imposter at this as well?

High On Music

“You’ve got to decide”, says SM, all chuckles and eyerolls, as my playlist blares from his speakers alternating between melancholic violin notes one minute and the sweet strumming of young love the next. “Are you heartbroken, or in love?”