.18 recreation

it was from the beginning,

the gaiety,
the laughs.
or maybe they were chortles back then.

the sound of something new,
bursting through the eggshells of conformity,
the act of breaking
the act of releasing
the act of starting a
fresh starting
a
fresh.

our only work:
recreation.

we played
together,
we danced
together,
you and i
enveloped in light
(enveloped, in one of those decent, heavyweight, quality envelopes you have to buy specially; not the tacky cheap kind that come in packs of 50 and require you to sellotape the back to keep it shut...)
that light
that blinded everything else from view
but you.


and then,
that fate-full (or fate-less?)
day,
when the sky went black
and the rocks split
and the curtain in our home was torn in
two
three
four
disintegrating
more
light
diminshing
fleeing
elsewhere
as the darkness
outside
infested
invested
rooted
and plundered
the merriment of the days of your
days of our.

you chose your path, i chose mine.
we had to go our separate ways.

the pain of leaving,
the hurt of
the final wave.


but still, i shall not,
no, never
go afar
be away
beyond reach.
if you search for me,
there,
you will find me.
i'll still be here, waiting.

im keeping your seat warm.

even if you forget about me
or never respond
to my calls
my texts
my messages
and emails
and letters
and birthdays cards.
leave me behind,
but,
i'll still be here, waiting.

like a stalker
of the best kind,

i do jealous
like you can't even know.

and even when i'm fiction
or social construct
or nothing more than mere self-introspection,
a gazing,
longing,
loving pair of eyes
that don't exist
like the cheshire cat's,
i'll still be here, waiting.


home,
the replaced curtains,
now repositioned,
will reflect
our laughter
upon each others
like glistening tambourines
floating on the tide-
if only you'll pick yours up again
and
play with me again.
and
dance with me again.

the world
with all its ferocious seduction
is limited in its ease and greed,
it cannot replace the chocolate virginity of youth.
recreation it may profess,
but the wrong kind.
the lesser kind.
the recreation of mediocre novelists
and accordion players
and croquet fanatics.
taking photos of railway carriages in anoraks and sitting in oxygen-starved casinos and arcade dens,
far from light.

we
together
pride ourselves in a
deeper type of recreation.
one that will break the traditions
and set the hearts in a burning inferno,
the passions on nitrous oxide.

come back.
turn around.
reach for your tambourine.

and we will recreate together.