Absent Soliloquies

Days you miss her differently, like you are a slave carrying a load twice your weight, like the mornings you wake up and feel sad without any reason, like how much breakfast tastes better before the sun topples from the sky, like how she wakes up and rubs her eyes and her sweater falls from one shoulder. Your eyes like green fire illuminate her, like tea with the brush of ginger she smiles to drop the essence of sweetness and hotness, it erupts until you open yourself to her.

She speaks and you suddenly melt onto her tongue. Her eyes are addictive negotiators; you inadvertently lock your fingers together and look at her as if sitting on a pier and staring at the calmness of the sea. She walks into the sea up to her waist and lets the rain pour on her until she speaks like waves. You remember the day you met her, how you spoke as you struggled to stop yourself from admitting that she stunned you with her beauty, charisma and sexiness but even without trying, she sewed herself to your heart.

But you are scared, soft, split as tumbleweed and unable to join her in the tempest unless she promises to hold your hands. You cannot seep into her and be silent about it, you cannot warm her when she is already the sea and you only possess matchsticks. She holds boulders tied in her ribcage and onto the floor of the sea, that have been anchored deep inside her flesh, her will, her prayers and each bloody virtue, that feeble hands like yours will tremble to split.

Yet you want to pour gasoline across the sea bed and run throwing matchsticks to warn her captors on the immensity of your desires. You swear to add oil tomorrow if the sea is unrelenting, if her soul is hesitant, if she keeps reminiscing on a visage who massacred her heart, if she keeps letting the echoes of despair escape her hollow body, then you’ll come back with more fuel – for her. You want to be who she turns to as a ritual each day and you pray she abides by the passion of being a woman and if at all she kisses you, and then you’ll ask no more. You know it is better you burn together and have your ashes mixed and disappear somewhere like the Bermuda triangle. You want to tell her; we are blood and sand, images of desire and love and every moment, each second that we have both existed has been for the day we met and the life inside us, evermore. But you are stupid and useless, nothing out of the ordinary and exceptionally boring and she is beautiful and sexy, and soon she’ll go to the mountain and be with someone else who built her a hut on it as you struggled to make a castle on land.

(C) Eddy Ongili 2015


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