It’s not the same, we could pretend all night, playing charades of being lovers in the moment. Sometimes intoxicated and sometimes, regrettably not. But I’ll never make you feel the way she can, she who can kiss away the frowns on your forehead and unclench your stubborn fingers. She who can melt into you like wax in flame and ice in rum, who can leave without leaving a trace and still leave your soul as hollow as a pitted walnut shell.
And nor are you he. He who can walk into a room and change the very air it contains. Who can make my guts clench into a tight pleasant knot with nothing more than a half hug, he who makes me want to crumble into a heap of peanut brittle in warm chocolate, whose hands on a discarded earring feel like a warm patient caress down my bare back. He who has become my temptation, it’s like I’ve been living in a dark Iceland with a fortified igloo around me and suddenly he decided to become the sun and come visiting. It’s like I’ve been welding an intricate cage around me for ages and ages past and in one snap of his fingers, the locks are undone, and the walls are none.
Dear convenient arrangement, my mechanical fingers make you live your fantasies; your experienced hands make me live mine while we accidentally moan a name that does not belong to anyone in the room. And later, we smoke in silence on either corner of the bed, half dressed and fully veiled. “You should come over for dinner sometime…soon…ish.”
I mumble something about a 9.30 meeting and begin to leave, physically.
And until next time we will continue, with our insulated emotions lodged deep into the no escape room of our corroding mind palace. And when the walls are threatening to give away, when the roof is about to collapse, one of us will message the other to get the cello tape and come and the other will promptly oblige.
And another night of temporary repairs will commence.
“Can I bum a smoke? … Thanks”
Goodbye dear sorrow
I have fond memories of you
I have to go
To find you anew
In unknown lands
And stormy sands
I wither in the search
Of what gave you your due
Goodbye dear sorrow
You’ve lived here enough
Your rent is over due
And you’ve got a cough
You dance damn fine
In tobacco and green
I’m off to a loveless land unseen
Goodbye dear sorrow
You’ve bound me enough
I wish we could be friends
But I’m too frail for you
A gypsy once told me
I will make a world of my own
I’m off to a loveless land unknown
Goodbye dear sorrow, Goodbye
This is the story of Fat Potato…well kind of.
Once upon a time, there was a fat potato, who was thin as a stick, that’s what they’d call her back then,
“Oi Celery… careful or the wind will take you with it!”
She hated it but she ignored it.
Her mama always told her she was special, so she waited for her special day to come. Everyday, even after a woman took her mother with her, she waited. The grocer Jean was kind of fond of her so he never threw her away, even though nobody picked her for their shopping cart.
Potato days are not very long you know, one human hour is two potato days, the woman took her mother 48 days back and if she remembered correctly Jean had got her here from the farm around 96 days back.
They would pick her, examine her like doctors examine patients as if she were some kind of specimen or anorexia patient and then leave her with a sigh making “tut tut” sounds with their tongues as they picked other big fat round potatoes for their stews and stuffings.
She always hoped someone would toss her in the basket and say something nice about her but no, it was always “what a poor little potato, who would buy that?” or “Hey Jean,this some special kid of yours? throw it away before it gets mouldy and spoils the other vegetables.” but he never did, good ol’ Jean.
“97…98…99…100!” Fat potato just realised it had been a hundred days since she was at Jean’s “I wonder how long is he going to put up with me” she thought “why couldn’t I be fat like others, god should’ve just made me a celery”
Just then she some one picked her up, it was a young girl with a pimple speckled face…her eyes widened at first Fat Potato thought it was disgust but she realised it was happiness as the sun shone in the round discs of her brown eyes.
“Oh you’re perfect!” she said, she picked a couple of more potatoes, Paid Jean and went away humming happily to herself. Leaving a surprised Jean staring after her
Fat Potato became the first French Fry and all potatoes who wanted to be french fries had to be cut into Fat Potato’s shape, but no one was quite as perfect as Fat Potato.