The footpath story.
They asked me for a number
And I couldn’t recall any
So I just told them the digits
My fingers remembered from the last time
I made a drunk call.
You answered the call
And they tell you to pick me up
From the footpath I slept on last night.
You tell them you are sleeping
Wrapped around someone’s arm
And I remember how it felt
To hold you close
To make you feel loved.
To feel being loved.
I barely remember if I even held anyone
After you went away that night
Stating how you feel home there
And I realized
That we ain’t talking about the same place.
That we ain’t in the same time zone anymore.
That this is a story written in red ink
That a character dies everytime a chapter ends.
So they called another number from my log
And my therapist took me to our therapy room.
He asked me what’s wrong.
Honestly I am really bad with words
I never know what to respond
When someone asks me – what’s the matter?
I tried to write a poem about you, for you.
I wish I could place those words on my tongue
And roll them out for you to feel
But since I’ve last kissed you
I can’t even find the motivation to part my lips.
These days I find myself questioning –
Why I even write!
Because the problem with my poems is
That you’re never the one reading them.
My therapist tells me not to wear black.
He plans an attack against the enemy forces.
He constantly says – ‘Love yourself’
Like a record on repeat
But there are some songs with lyrics
That always fail to stuck in your head.
So I sleep again on the same footpath
Listening to the same song
Hoping some day you will rescue me
Or esle I will learn the lyrics by heart.