a thud, and it rolls,

covering itself with dust and

dirt.

it’s contribution to

the rusty-red artwork (like many before it)

is gently brushed on the canvas,

white on black,

new on old.

a step, then two,

as a sea of cold eyes shift,

moving away.

murmurs follow their currents,

and soon,

only one

remains in the empty sea.

A pair of eyes, startlingly still,

as though asleep.

only when the skies turn as

red as the land does

it watch the last sunset it’ll

ever see.

what do you expect me to do?

come up to you, on my knees,

beg, cry, hold on to the fabric of

your ripped jeans, look

up at you,

eyes brimming with tears.

to fix whatever hole i left in you,

that i’ve left in myself.

what should i do, what can

i do,

when i can’t even say that

one word to those i’ve

touched.

sorry

that i can only say these words,

hiding behind an unreachable wall, where

the boundary of consequences are blurred

you see,

i am a coward, scared of what’s to come.

who am i to stand, to

face those who might hurt me.

some have said i am strong, that i can face and swallow

the pain; that i don’t break down.

laughable, how there are so many misunderstandings,

so many masks that people fall for in this world.

like my mask, a smile tattooed with bright colours,

decorated with a hand that reaches out to others, that

pats them on the back and

waves back. who am i to say that

one day this mask of mine won’t fall,

break so that that smile cracks

and that oh-so-loving hand falls back.

…

a warning to those who may

follow the same path as me.

there are many forks in this journey called life.

take one, take many, and stray far far away from

my road, filled with twists and turns and

cracks, repaired over and over, until

it can no longer be saved.

what was it,

on that day the sun cried

it’s happy tears, when

those children, a boy and girl,

frolicked among a field

of daisies, white

and frayed.

we were sitting on

a bench,

brown and wooden,

just like the few others

littered around.

it was so obvious,

(i realise)

the way your face held

onto a fake mask that you had created.

what was it,

as our thighs slightly touched,

so little that i’m sure

you didn’t notice, as we

roamed so far apart, our minds in different worlds;

yours, i think, was

not too far from those

frayed daises, trampled upon by

a boy and a girl.

i remember, on that day,

the breeze greeted us

playfully, tapping us on the shoulder, only to laugh as

it ran away, hiding.

i remember, when i looked over;

your eyes were empty,

looking in the direction of

the children, and i

could almost see the slightest hint of

a tear,

slowly running down your

cheek.

you can’t catch up to time,

i realise (it’s too fast).

so may i ask one question, just

one last one: when was it

too late.

too late to hold your hand, to

talk to you, to

use my hands, which warmed up yours,

to gently take off the mask that

you used to cover up any

misconception,

any fear that you saw,

to reveal your face,

forever wet from countless tears.

and as those children played

among deceased daises,

_you know, the ones with

your hazel eyes and

my dirty-blonde hair_

where were you,

as the breeze no longer jested,

and i sat on the bench with

cold hands.