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.


Aren’t you…


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.


Aren’t I…


The chandeliers are violent again

I’ve been listening, but you don’t hear.


Oh, aren’t I still lost in your tempest?





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