Because it looks romantic to die with someone you love

I remember us meeting at a poetry gig one Saturday evening. You kept laughing throughout the performances and I thought you were such a happy, successful and high spirited person because I really don’t like sad people and people who complain about the government or people who keep asking where all the ICC witnesses went; whether justice exists, but I remember telling my friends 3 years ago that ICC was a smokescreen; so let the dead bury themselves. So when it was my turn to hit the stage, I took the microphone and read a poem I had written about sex and the audience kept snapping and laughing and the MC said something good about me and my blog and she made fun of my goatee too. While I was on stage, while everybody else was laughing, you were then only one who didn’t laugh as much and you were on your phone and I was bothered a little because your were prettier than the girls your were seated next to and I was hoping maybe I could impress you because I and my fiancé had just broken up and I was a little vulnerable. A little desperate for attention. A little bit in everyone’s face.

We took selfies afterwards. You hugged me saying you loved my stuff and I was a little confused. And we talked for some minutes. We exchanged phone numbers. And I watched you walk down the stairs. And I was inspired that evening I bought drinks for my friends. And I texted you goodnight and thanks for coming to the show as the taxi wormed its way to my block where women usually wear very short skirts when washing clothes on Sundays.

Somehow we met in town mid-week and you were with your friend and I bought you both lunch but I later developed gas from digestive problems because I ate while nervous. I was falling for you and I would feel a surge of energy whenever I thought about you and your face always appeared in my morning coffee cup and I wanted to text you all the time because I hate making and taking phone calls, but I couldn’t for fear of appearing so desperate.

The next Saturday we drove past Iten to some spot where you could enjoy the natural view below the mountain and it felt good because I wanted to keep on driving while fighting the temptation to wrap my hand around your shoulder, like that Tracy Chapman song that you love. I wanted to maybe kiss you. Maybe let go of the steering wheel and touch your face and we could roll of a cliff and die because in movies, it looks romantic to die with someone you truly love. And I hadn’t even had the guts to tell you how much I was in love with you and I had even changed my WhatsApp my profile picture to yours. I had even dreamt of the possibility of us getting married. Having two or three kids. The girl with a forehead like yours; the boy with lips like mine. That would be my lips on your forehead once again. I had imagined us having late night arguments that end in some morning make-up sex before I drive to work. I had imagined all sorts of things like a girl like you doesn’t like rough sex or being yelled at or a guy who smokes. So I had even considered quitting smoking or smoking secretly and chewing mint or turning your body into one big Cuban cigar.

I remember the evenings my empty side of the bed looked like a grave because you had gone to see your grandma in that neighborhood where kids don’t eat cereals for breakfast. Some nights I would revenge by staying late at night reading PDFs on my laptop and you would say I will go blind by 50 because of the infrared rays. I would tell you Louis Armstrong has a scar on his upper lip from blowing jazz trumpets. Or Eminem was addicted to sleeping pills because he would stay all night writing lyrics. So passion must always leave a scar.

As I passionately type this, it makes my fingertips smile to know that these fingers have mapped the secret crevices of your skin and written vows on your tongue and these fingers will soon slide a ring into your finger and these fingers will hold yours throughout life’s boulevard till the flowers on our graveyards lose their scent.

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About Wudz

A scribe. A psychonaut.
This entry was posted in Poetry. Bookmark the permalink.

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