magi

‘I’m a Magi’, I told her. ‘but I’ll need your thyme to validate my sweetness’.

She giggled and I went on to narrate how I once brought to the Lord’s manger a bit of frank-sense. Honestly, I don’t pretend. But when I pleaded in poetic lines to the Lord to please restore my love; but baby, Jesus was silent.

I must’ve rendered him speechless with punchlines. 

My bard!

She giggled. I still hear her giggle royco in my head whenever I stare at the full moon.

We both love the moon. Full moon.

Sighs.

I miss her.

Does she miss me too? I don’t knorr.

She is hot, my ex. Very hot like hot chocolate. Her skin, chocolate. I could ogle and drool for split seconds, that seem like hours, at her pictures painting poetica in my subconscious.

We are poets. We wrote lines back and forth that could make one twice wet under the rain.

When cold, I pretend to cuddle her so I could steal her body heat.

Told ya. She’s hot, my ex, like hot chocolate. And I was the marshmallow. Too hot was she I couldn’t be on top for long.

I came too soon.

I came with all my hart and sole. Little wonder she was so hurt when I bored a hole with my absence. She was pale when I returned. Suffering from a lack of vitamin me.

‘I can heal ya’ I promised. ‘I still need ya’

But that was noise to her ears. Even my sweetest of songs was like the croaking of an elderly toad.

Sadly, there was no space left for the Magi. Because frankly, my sweet words made no sense no more.

Not even her thyme could validate my sweetness. Love became a pot of tasteless jollof.

=============================================

‘I’m a Magi’, I told her. ‘but I’ll need your thyme to validate my sweetness’.

Fortunately, she didn’t understand a bit of what I said that night.

Thyme played a fast one on Magi. She ran out of time, I suppose.

Why?

Magi comes. Magi goes. Magi leads a nomadic life, following stars here and there, in search of one lone star to whom Magi owes eternal worship.

Truth is, relationships that happen too soon are like fat people. Most of them don’t work out.

But Magi is just a lanky guy. Needs to work out.

…and that’s how Magi lost his sweetness to lack of thyme.

Yet Magi’s onga for love never dies.

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30, a collection of poems by Jaachi Anyatonwu
Jaachị Anyatọnwụ
Jaachị Anyatọnwụ is a poet, editor, and publisher living in the suburbs of Aba. He is the author of numerous poetry chapbooks and collections, and the Editor-In-Chief of Poemify Publishers Inc. Jaachị is passionate about discovering new voices and mentoring emerging poets. He is also a fierce advocate for the boy child and sexually molested.

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