Kintsugi

screenshot_20180803-223004__01__01145103700474109137.jpg

Spinning little stars in a cracked marble universe.
It was the first time he wrote a story in his head.
He was five.
A kid with a glass marble held between tiny fingers.
He moved it close to his right eye,
and his left eyelid drew the curtain down.
The right eye watched the imagination unfold.
Planets spun around and their moons followed them,
like he’d follow his mother from one room to the next.
He twisted the round thing over,
and felt the crushed part with his thumb.
Imperfection. The first time he was drawn to it.
Maybe that’s what made rest of the piece so intriguing.
A world near-perfect with a slight flaw that hid a secret.
He wondered what must have caused it.
Each time he played the marbles, he could tell this piece apart.
From its beautiful imperfection.
It was the first time he cared more for the ‘broken’,
for he felt it needed a healing touch.

writing

Poetry

Poetry. She is a woman.
He ressurects her on nights that keep him awake.
She is his favourite garden dressed in black.
She drags him through the storm where the pretty things bloom.
She is made of all the sunsets he tried to evade.
She is an overdose of wildflowers stuffed in his chest.
She is his bruised knees and a pair of broken wings.
She tastes like his desires with a hint of bourbon .
They meet under the twinkle lights & he presses her against the bricks.
He caresses her like she’s his lifeline inscribed on a parchment.
She likes the way he calls her name with his hands around her neck.
She tells him things that petals confide to the Sun.
He can’t remember the first time her soul whispered to his. He knows she woke it.
But it hasn’t slept since.
Poetry. She is a woman.
A sunset chaser, star gazer.
A wide-eyed pretty little mess.