The chandeliers hanging from your ear lobes
swing back and forth violently.
They kiss your neck,
and your shoulders,
and the fragrant air that lingers over your collarbones;
they touch and they go and my heart aches of nostalgia
because you did the same.
Oh, aren’t you tempestuous?
I strum the strings of my guitar
until my fingers know the colour of your lips,
but the tinkling chandeliers
chant choirs of independence,
and the last fluid puff of smoke
of your last lipstick stained cigarette
spells out d e m o c r a c y.
I howl into the moonless night
but it takes till dawn to reach you;
dawn, when you hum while making a cup of tea
for your hung-over father,
and it becomes a whisper
in front of his groans,
when you draw back the curtains and unleash
the stringent rays of mustard sunshine upon him.
Alas! I sigh,
and rebellious of my reluctance,
my sighs caress wind chimes and falling leaves
as they leave in pursuit of you,
but by then you already are deafened
by symphonies of yourself being others’ muse,
and they all come rushing back,
and they mess up my hair,
and in a breath my fingertips are singed
with their radioactive agony.
The chandeliers are violent again
I’ve been listening, but you don’t hear.
Oh, aren’t I still lost in your tempest?