Your hands on her

I have realized lately, I spent more time looking up at the sky, embracing the beauty of the clouds, the shapes they form to. I spent more time catching the raindrops trying to make a tiny ocean for my thoughts to swim where even drowning is safe. I spent more time playing songs inside my head, eye-counting the stars, wishing on the twin numbers I stumble on when I look for the time. I spent more time concentrating on a word and eat my day with my would’ve and should’ve. 

Also, I think of ways if I can go back to the flower era, where there is calmness, sharing, caring, ambiance filled with love, where vision is green, where the solution to everything is peace and love. 

Amidst all, I mostly think of what isn’t mine and what could have been mine and the possibilities of what isn't mine to be mine... 

I think of all those things that you are going through and wonder why is it really happening? Is there any acceptable reason to those grieves, to those bruises and bump under your eyes? 

And I spent more time learning what love is, what waiting is, what expecting is, what change is, what coldness and absence is, what silence is.
Then I realized I spent the most time hating myself when I see your hands on her. 

On me (I am wearing):

White sheet without stain

Bag filled with words scribbled

An umbrella closed even when there is rain

Slipper to remove instantly in water

Soko on my behalf.

Much love

Dongaala