I haven't posted a poem I've written for ages. I thought I'd share something I wrote recently. It's a little strange but most of my pieces are. Enjoy!
"à cache-cache"
Ah, I found you.
You were hiding in the candlewick.
I have been burning these candles
for years, you see. You were with me
when I bought them, scented rose,
lavender and chamomile tea.
You wanted to put them in the loungeroom,
to create ‘ambience’, you said, when we had guests over.
You would play Satie and speak in low caramel voices
of avant-garde film and yellowing poetry.
I hid them away beside the bathtub.
You frowned but said nothing.
I would take long warm baths
every Sunday evening,
and sometimes you would join me
and we would make slow love.
The candlelight would caress my skin
more gently than you, you who would leave
bruises on my clavicle and fingerprints
on my ribcage.
One day,
you disappeared.
Erik Satie, Chopin, Debussy,
scattered to the wind. You even took
half the green tea leaves we had, the fresh ones,
that we drank every morning before work.
I thought about looking for you,
running outside, gliding through the rain,
calling your name in desperate cries,
all cliché, and what they liked to call
‘romantic’.
I took a long warm bath instead,
and lit the candles. I listened to the water whisper
whenever I would move my aching ankles,
my stiff wrists. When I slowly, gingerly
climbed out of the bathtub,
I blew out the rose, lavender,
chamomile candles—
and there you were,
a glimmer of your smile
tucked away within the wick
of the candle.
You were hiding in the candlewick.
I have been burning these candles
for years, you see. You were with me
when I bought them, scented rose,
lavender and chamomile tea.
You wanted to put them in the loungeroom,
to create ‘ambience’, you said, when we had guests over.
You would play Satie and speak in low caramel voices
of avant-garde film and yellowing poetry.
I hid them away beside the bathtub.
You frowned but said nothing.
I would take long warm baths
every Sunday evening,
and sometimes you would join me
and we would make slow love.
The candlelight would caress my skin
more gently than you, you who would leave
bruises on my clavicle and fingerprints
on my ribcage.
One day,
you disappeared.
Erik Satie, Chopin, Debussy,
scattered to the wind. You even took
half the green tea leaves we had, the fresh ones,
that we drank every morning before work.
I thought about looking for you,
running outside, gliding through the rain,
calling your name in desperate cries,
all cliché, and what they liked to call
‘romantic’.
I took a long warm bath instead,
and lit the candles. I listened to the water whisper
whenever I would move my aching ankles,
my stiff wrists. When I slowly, gingerly
climbed out of the bathtub,
I blew out the rose, lavender,
chamomile candles—
and there you were,
a glimmer of your smile
tucked away within the wick
of the candle.
