He dresses his emotions in white
The colour of lies, told to self not to subdue
To an avalanche of unfamiliar happiness
Locking up truth in a dusty cabinet
Above the stove where coffee brews.
He smokes cigarettes to occupy his mouth,
To make sure he won’t confess what’s in his mind
For him not to commit, the obscenity of revealing
That queer overwhelming feeling, of utter relief
Whenever he’s with me.
Albeit the silence I sense it, it’s reciprocal,
We both indulge in being enveloped
By a bubble breaking us out of reality,
For us the sun rises to arrest the storm
The sky shushes to heed our breaths
Even the birds wait, for the gurgling noise
Of the espresso machine to resume their song,
It’s as if the gods value our moment,
Voyeurs of our fugitive encounters,
Lovers are indeed their favourite entertainment.
And now you’re running in the park
Surrounded by turtles and I’m in a bar,
Clouds are releasing all they’ve got.
[Featured sculpture: Psyche Revived by Cupid’s Kiss by Antonio Canova]