In my dusty recollections…
The gust of the cherry petals showered their last.
And he stood beneath the tree like a grinning fool,
his memory, and springtime draining into the past.
That bronzed face laughing as the mist grew cool.
Evenings spent there after school,
whilst the mist grew colder,
Talking, of all things about destiny,
He said ‘A man’s born to soar, and I’m worth three’
Friendship, it seems, always burns to a smoulder,
And yet ours dared to burn when dark nights drew,
Because his need for a shadow was like my need for him too,
For the hopeful boy, with teeth that smiled like he knew
Everything about what is true.
He was the colours, and I was in need of painting.
Arguments were only fights if he lost his cue.
The nostalgia stills the childhood heartbeat so close to fainting.
His words, like life itself never made much sense.
Yet when the days grew to battle we dropped all pretence.
Our world would stretch farther than evenings in haze,
His words of a marriage made me dizzy; we danced in a daze.
And when he left to soar, but fell so hard,
Into his khaki and his grave and his Mother’s grievance card.
I knew that those cherry petals fell for the life that could be.
Irony was having his well earned joke on me.
And still, in those spring nights, he loved me.
‘A man’s born to soar, and I’m worth three.’
If God let him dream, then why not break him free?
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