We Could Have Phrased Goodbye Differently
I am having a relationship with a sentence
that blooms unsure with summer heat, it asks: what if?
Cold mornings, bird-songed early in September while
a lonely chill yawned for August, we shivered: why?
Sentenced, it rises to steam tea, Black, sweet, the colour
of a sleeve; in the morning we share
slowness: we keep talking, soft & honeyed hush
bare in each other’s secrets, loose on the lip
is cardamom, a dark beauty spot, words
lost to urgent breaths, a sentence
lifted past my lips – dearly departed and uttered
3000 miles away – too far so far to speak, a sentence
whose period is right around the corner
it sighs, sees me, and says; love.
We Love in Transit
Holding all we’ve ever been
in lips parted to story
in 2 suitcases and backpack
Holding all the ways to
de part
be part
a part
part of
part ly
part ner &
part hair and twist
and fragment story
lines at the terminal
Holding an endless embrace;
we break.
Kuln’Zu (Fred Zucule)