Carpe-diem

I think you like it, that you

have so much of my time. Every evening

from work to sleep, my every night of despair, you

keep me; happy, unhappy, lost, tired, in the morning

you are just a tinkle of glass on my frontdoor. But

you run my life. Not anymore.

I am not giving up, I

am finding control, tomorrow I will

forget you; and there will be a silence in the morning,

and you will

no longer be

part of my life. Soon, I will spend my spare time

reading, or writing about things I feel, not

those you want me to feel about. I will

not write about the night

you said goodbye, anymore. There will be no more

descriptions of the Acacia tree whose thorns

were blunter than your words that night, or the cop

I hit as I drove home. That TV whose screen I kicked in

Is anyway gone, what I miss is the carefully underlined

collection of poetry- Yeats, no less. Can you

courier it back to me? Tomorrow on, I take control of my

life, and there will no more be the tinkle of beer bottles every

morning. And that book was part of my life

before this was. Please return, if you can

those evenings I drove you home. Please

return my alone-ness.

Ever blue

There is a song playing

somewhere,

a background music of soothing, lost

desire. All around me, there is a mess, half-unpacked

bags, a forest of beer bottles, an ashtray

full of half smoked cigarettes, remnants of

a life slowly, desperately clinging

to hopes of death.

I do not know you, anymore. Nor

myself. A strange sadness this is, one that

begins in the mornings, and melds with alcohol fumes

every night. How alive am I? How much will I live

when I am dead? I do not know your face, your smile,

when I look in the mirror

I do not see you anymore.

The skies turn colours I cannot name, in the evening

seen from the windows of my cube.

This mundane life is killing me. But until you come

I will damn well die whichever way I want to.