i remember now
perhaps, more vividly
the end of this bleak memory
of one of life's overlooked curses
waiting.
silent.
a whole silent nineteen
hours, waiting,
to go home.
waiting for her.
from heat to air-conditioned
chaos. a holiday, finally
turning sour, as i had expected it to.
DELAYED.
surely, a joke.
of course not.
it never is.
we weren't the only ones,
twisting in uncomfortable nylon chairs
as the others dispersed
like once swarming flies
to another source of sticky pleasure.
i circled, impatient shark
teeth snapping
smooth soles slapping
on linoleum floor
a food token
consolation prize
like a needy refugee
clasped in my sweaty palm.
he keeps following me
can't blame him, he's stuck here as well
but he's too close
a sick submissive, trying to limp
after his agitated mistress.
mindlessly browsing for
the twenty-fifth time
my gaze falls upon a book
the very same that drags this
sordid account from the dregs
of my mind.
a spark of interest is all i need
two hours amidst the many
blur past me, huddled
in a helpless heap, draining
this book of all its soul
pencil scribbling as i disappear
then, i finish.
the hands, merciless,
slow down once again.
eyelids drooping
could this be?
sleep, of all things, a blessing
to swat the time away?
ha.
the engines hum
the building shudders
not used to the emptiness
finally.
we board, a line of murmurs
the joy fades as a simultaneous
realisation rings; eight hours to go.
restless, although mind is numb
head pounds, as sleep evades me
the view provides some comfort
we seem to be floating
above an ocean of clouds
stars dreaming
within the deep violet-blue
of the quiet night sky
i think of her.
the smile hurts on a weary face.
day breaks
the sun streams through
pungent acid rain
the first breath of air, so fresh
free of the stuffy compartments
not-enough-leg-room and
gagging green pillows
then the cold hits.
temperature is an easily forgotten thing.
bleary eyes search for the taxi
so close to the end
travel sickness, overwhelming
i can hardly walk for nauseous spinning
traffic, naturally
tick tick tick
a familiar street
nearly there
doors clicks shut
home.
the sound of her voice.
that, letter.
as are the higlights
of a summer vacation.
perhaps, more vividly
the end of this bleak memory
of one of life's overlooked curses
waiting.
silent.
a whole silent nineteen
hours, waiting,
to go home.
waiting for her.
from heat to air-conditioned
chaos. a holiday, finally
turning sour, as i had expected it to.
DELAYED.
surely, a joke.
of course not.
it never is.
we weren't the only ones,
twisting in uncomfortable nylon chairs
as the others dispersed
like once swarming flies
to another source of sticky pleasure.
i circled, impatient shark
teeth snapping
smooth soles slapping
on linoleum floor
a food token
consolation prize
like a needy refugee
clasped in my sweaty palm.
he keeps following me
can't blame him, he's stuck here as well
but he's too close
a sick submissive, trying to limp
after his agitated mistress.
mindlessly browsing for
the twenty-fifth time
my gaze falls upon a book
the very same that drags this
sordid account from the dregs
of my mind.
a spark of interest is all i need
two hours amidst the many
blur past me, huddled
in a helpless heap, draining
this book of all its soul
pencil scribbling as i disappear
then, i finish.
the hands, merciless,
slow down once again.
eyelids drooping
could this be?
sleep, of all things, a blessing
to swat the time away?
ha.
the engines hum
the building shudders
not used to the emptiness
finally.
we board, a line of murmurs
the joy fades as a simultaneous
realisation rings; eight hours to go.
restless, although mind is numb
head pounds, as sleep evades me
the view provides some comfort
we seem to be floating
above an ocean of clouds
stars dreaming
within the deep violet-blue
of the quiet night sky
i think of her.
the smile hurts on a weary face.
day breaks
the sun streams through
pungent acid rain
the first breath of air, so fresh
free of the stuffy compartments
not-enough-leg-room and
gagging green pillows
then the cold hits.
temperature is an easily forgotten thing.
bleary eyes search for the taxi
so close to the end
travel sickness, overwhelming
i can hardly walk for nauseous spinning
traffic, naturally
tick tick tick
a familiar street
nearly there
doors clicks shut
home.
the sound of her voice.
that, letter.
as are the higlights
of a summer vacation.
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