There is a young chap at a place of work
Baby face with a stubbled chin
It is as if a man's face
has trapped a happy kid within.
The young fellow loves a cute young girl
Dainty, delicate, pretty like a rose
She doesn't speak to the baby-faced chap
does not let him come up close.
There is another girl sitting far away
her poetic eyes a mystery urn
She wonders what babyface likes
and how can she make his head turn
A bit further, is a lanky young chap
His eyes dancing, a smiling face
He loves the girl with the poetic eyes
His twinkling eyes, hiding his craze
Up in the skies, the angel sighs
Tired of these cross-wired flings
Droopy fingers and drowsy eyes
Slowly untangle the messed up strings.
She always spells my name wrong.
Deliberately? Probably.
Oh! she has done so all along.
Innocuously, possessively.
She calls me by a different name
Adds a pointless stammer
It is as if she is playing a game
of deliberate faulty grammar
I smile at my name, spelt wrong
laugh at the stammers and slips
to the world of wrong names I belong,
as long as it touches her lips.
A rickety table. Blue with white legs.
A red checkered tablecloth
creating small triangles on four sides.
A stray by the floor.
His eyes half sleepy, half expectant.
A bowl of peanuts, mostly broken.
To go with cheap local beer,
served in glasses used for
orange juice by the day.
Distant sound of waves, mixed with moist salty wind.
Sky a kaleidoscope of pink, fuchsia and grey
bidding adieu to the setting sun.
They sit in silence
nonchalance bred through years of familiarity.
Eyes vacant, lips closed
The evening has a single word
of conversation,
'CHEERS'
We draw our borders, we stake our claim, yet love still rises, a quiet flame. It slips through silence, it breaks the night, a hidden ...
