he would always sleep with himself
& make love with the shards of his punctured heart
it was musical–the tom tom tom
of his heart drumming hard like the skilful
hands of a drummer boy on a talking drum–his heart, it talks about the
vinegar flavour of close calls to death.
death of intimacy.
intimacy with her.
her enchanting presence.
presence overrun by the ear-shattering echo of the silence that followed her exit bumper to
as though the world couldn’t wait for
his beautiful tale of red roses &
blue violets to morph into a mosaic of
& a thousand other versions of ‘sorry, lol. we actually don’t care. we are glad it’s over. rest. lol.’
then, he’d pass out,
from the intense pleasure
of fucking his hurt.
when he wakes, for the rest of the day–for whatever was left of him of that day– he would exploit by incanting, “breakfast na national cake. e go reach everibodi”
he’d laugh, & cry, & laugh amidst tears, & wonder why the aroma of music that sneaks through the cracks of his heart from his neighbour’s home theatre, suddenly makes sense, & why his favourite meal sounds like a beautiful cacophony.
when your heart dies, you find music tastes different, & food sounds the same