The door creaked open. The 3 of them walked in. Two of them sat down, and the oracle said to her, ‘You’re late’
‘Im… I’m late?’ She stammers uncomprehendingly.
‘Yes’ says the oracle picking up a pile of books from the table. ‘These books are waiting for you for 3 months’
‘This isn’t a meeting. this isn’t even coffee’ – he said, taking a large sip of coffee from his mug.
‘This is just a drop off”
She collects the words blankly, as if in slow motion. They pierce the barrier of feeling remotely significant.
She contemplates the words that are economical with the truth, as he wears out his smug smile.
‘Maybe’ she thinks to herself. ‘Maybe its time to run for your life’
A bunch of keys sits on the coffee table, bound by a keyring and 2 remote controls.
One is bluish grey and the other bright green.
‘Don’t press the RED button’
She presses it, adamantly.
He smirks, ‘Youve just opened the Garage at home’ he says and points into the distance with a laugh.
The crowd has become a blurry frenzy of chatter and movement,
our eyes meet
until you smile
and you mouth my name.
You left … without saying goodbye, as i sat at the metaphoric alter of our love, broken to shards by your cowardness. Mistakes and stupidity are always forgiveable, even when the damages run deep. Cowardness never fades. It immortalizes itself in memory – and wears the smile of the person who was your only hope. Hope. That word again. Hope died in a dusty corner of Cape Town amidst the summer skies and holiday decor and santa saying ho, ho, fucking ho. Resonating your own abuse of me that would scar my soul forever.
I pulled on those sneakers, that make me short,
and tied my hair up half the way,
added in some eyeliner
and i remembered how being this short, and simple ,
always made you say that i was ‘YOUR Girl’
There was nothing to come home to,
Except the mask of a stranger