Strolling Around your House on a Sunday Afternoon
I'm talking about
the balcony of your house,
with its stone-rough surface,
and the simply ornamented sculptures,
and puddles of water
as remnants of the last night's downpour
saw it all.
On how we gazed at the
purple night sky powdered with stars,
How I dangle my foot
as you rest yours on the balcony edge,
the laughters, and some tears
As we share our
deepest, darkest
secrets.
And then it connects, the balcony,
to the living room,
with moth-eaten sofa chairs,
and the quaint coffee table I once bumped on,
heard it all.
The hour-long telephone talks,
and the additional thirty-minute interrogation about your new crush,
which usually lasts longer than intended
Your plain teasing, on how
chubby I get each day, and on how
I goof around with your stick-like built.
The giggles and the smirks
as we twirl around the mirror
thanking God for gifting us height, and how
He created dopes for us to feast on.
And now, its your room,
with its cream-colored walls,
decors with ebony frames,
the dusty window screen and your
flimsy curtains;
felt it all.
The sadness, pain, disappointments
of my impossible lovelife
and the craziness of your own.
The joy, happiness, fulfillment
of life in its hardest.
The way we pick on our crushes' exes, and on how
we compare them to toenails.
Poor toenails.
The feasibility of our
own absurd dreams.
And then your bed,
with its cute beddings,
sometimes of blue flowers,
or pink-eared elves,
or lemon-hued quilts.
Your pillows,
cottony, feathery, and
lumpy,
caught it all.
The crumbs of bread,
dried, rye-like, with and without filling
from our brunch-in-bed escapades
as I wake in mid-morning after
spending the night in your house.
The drops of water, from
the half-tipped glass we
sneak upstairs.
The tears,
of joy and sorrow,
of remorse and regret,
of creation and destruction,
of our stories,
of ourselves.
And to the photograph,
of me and
you.
Beneath your
willow mattress,
together with your treasured
pocketbooks I abhor,
together with the dust,
and the cobwebs,
between the pages of the
old notebook where I used to
write my amateur proses.
Sealed forever.
Immortalized, by
the hands of time.
For friendship was made,
after we
were.
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