erm...this I guess is just a story-esq thingybobwhatumightcallit. The last time I blinked I blue-tacked mirrors unto the insides of my eyelids so I could see myself un-bathed in light. The secrets I saw averaged the rites passaged by many men before me, we men are known for our majesty in keeping emotions un-flown, so unsurprisingly I saw (in the eternal solitude of a momentary blink, I saw) the uprisings of friends I am yet to make amends with…
Three unspoken ‘sorry’s hung in mid air, three beacons beckoning that I be man, and dare to speak them. The sorry story that stood out the most was a tale ghost-written by the guardians of things-not-meant-to-happen, I now know that hope is a drug that blurs truth’s be, this one involves she…
She… had lashes that lazed the world, hair that cascaded crazy, these locks that kept me captive, I did not seek freedom, wanted to stay captivated by long looks and the flowing mane of wild stallions born of powder puffs and pouts, she was gorgeous, thus the story stood out.
We met on a night ordained by the ordinary. The stars reflected in the windowpane dribbled mere suggestions of light, mingled with the rain. Told her that I would like to see her again and lip printed her left cheek, a week later, sheltered from the still-lazy rain, we first-kissed; our tongues – like dancers, lips – the dance floor, heart - beating the backing track to tongue-tip-tango. Kissing as though sent from Shango, sending small sweetened lightning bolts between us, like firework-flavoured mango. In this fruit frenzy and lightning shift, she tells me she doesn’t do relationships. That should have sent alarm bells ringing but I was caught between wild stallions and electric mangoes, I remembered was a ‘comma’ in a cascading kiss. Besides… honestly, no-strings attached loving was a luxury this boy could not miss… So I’m like “Yeah! Bring it.”
It is three weeks later. I now know her mind to be greater than her fine body’s form. I want to be the duvet that keeps her warm, to be there when her brain waves collide so I can ride the after surf till the morning comes. She senses this change in me, reminds me that she doesn’t do relationships, and I reply: “Yeah, I know”. But harbouring fugitive fancies of us with entwined shadows; I did not want to let go. It started with me holding on long after we’d stop kissing, with waking up at night to watch her chest rising and falling and perspiring forehead glisten, with whispering her first name with my surname, just “making sure it fits”.
She, sensing this change growing, started un-sowing those lightning seeds till our bouts became sparse forays where my heart showing would cause her to freeze. I tried giving her space to breathe that a graceful absence might make her see that though laced with thoughts of lengthening light seeds, I’m still the storm’s son of ease…
Till one night, one willowed eve, she told me she’d been sowing somewhere else. The unspoken words intoning that I had pushed past the fields of friendship, tried to grow something greater, - that type of feast, she just couldn’t cater, me getting so mad, to the point of starting to hate her: this lady I shared enlightened mangos with, I could not bear to see; that memory, mere… strange fruit, swinging where we ought to be.
And though knowing that I caused our friendship’s cold, I doubt if I’ll ever let her know. I’ll follow the footprints of men, and keep this emotion un-flown. I’ll back track past lightning lips, dance floors and powder puff pouts, paint myself a barrier and riff through it unashamed -This is the art of knowing one is guilty yet keeping one sane – if it starts to get too hard, that ‘sorry’ starts to strain, I will un tack the blues, blink again, again, and again.