Monday, 6 October 2014

~ What is it? ~

~ What is it? ~
Dripping from your hair,
Unto your wry bathrobe
Seeping into the pasty tile,
Longings of a long while …
Hanging from the knob,
A hooked crescent mile
Waiting outside the door,
Years, days, made into a pile …
Underneath the other side,
Of the cotton pillowed wile
A strand of pepper hair,
Lying hidden, tweaked off a file …
What is it?
That you don’t talk about …
That when seen in your eyes,
Your forehead cringes,
Into a Facading rile
Breaths heavy to lug in and out,
Skin on arms, too, would vomit goose bumps,
Your fingers squirm though pocketed already by then,
What is it?
Would you ever tell?
I know, even if you won’t, I so know,
What is it all about,
(Sigh) … ‘Just a memory’!
Isn’t it?

1 comment:

  1. smiles...what is it that i dont talk about...well perhaps if we had a cup of coffee one day i would tell you...ha...just a memory...sometimes...