The thought bubbles rising over my head
do not have a silver lining.
They are grey, not because
of blue thoughts, but because
they are heavy with a gossamer
connecting diaphanous droplets. I am honeying it,
it is really a cobweb of intersections
(you do that in a poem written by romantics — I am that)
these clouds are so preternaturally dense
that if you squeeze them,
there will be a rubble
over my banal head
since we do not believe in littering,
I will sweep it all and spill them
(I want to say throw, but)
into the non-recyclable. I cannot possibly
recycle them, not because
they don’t come with the triangle,
I cannot have them back. Ever.
My mind will be out of itself.
But the syrupy thoughts cling to my hands.
I wash them off.
(Always do that after you take the garbage out.)
but the soap is the complimentary kind
that does no harm. The invisible thoughts
hide in the pockets of chipped nails.
Later, when I place a red nib on a betel leaf
to write love, the miscreants, lying doggo,
plop on the olive green and banish
my curvy serifs.
A variegated mess of a love poem,
now sits between the pages of his diary.
(Hopefully).
© M.D.B.
