What are you staring at,
Africa?
What are you trying to
reach
with your eyes
so far outside?
Your immaculate
marble fingers
blend to the figure
of your thigs,
so deadly forgotten
your blood doesn't even
run.
Your spine is slightly
hunched forward
and your eyelids
can not bear the light.
"Do you want to go outside?"
I'm the one to ask.
I don't want to startle you
so I force my voice to be
profound.
You look at me.
How do you do it like
that?
How can you chain
me to something
abstract?
You nod so stilly.
You speak so mutely.
"Yes"
"I do, too."
I just can not help it.
My smirk blows it up.
"I want to go public with you"
And even though I can't
visualize your smile,
I catch sight of your
dimpling cracks
and I feel it,
I hear the gap
in your mat lips
when you tell me
how pathetic
that was.
"I know."
And then I also don't.
I don't know why
you're still here
sitting
flat.
YOU ARE READING
I named her Africa #Wattys2015
شِعرI didn't mind if my fingertips were rusted with coffee grounds, or if my palm still hosted bread crumbs, I reached out my hand across the table, and you squeezed it but proved me wrong. My mind was spiraling, my heart, unstable. ____________________...
