Lonely

The grit. Between the toes, and on that scaly, peeling heel of mine.

The moist earth breathes, and my feet feel summer.

On the first day of autumn.

Watched an abundance of romcoms lately,

To placate my yearning side.

500 days of summer.

Then autumn.

No end.

But the garden is breathing a little more easily now,

Freed from the wandering willy, and convolvulus

That power hungrily creeps across the sanity of upright plants.

The hot terracotta pots absorbed the water

Removing 10 years of my life,

In one split second of sensuality.

I am on the verandah of my grandfather’s house,

Eyeing the decreasing amount of pot plants;

Succulents, verigated somethings and somethingelse

My memory will not lend me.

The mosquitoes bite me,

The flying ants fly en masse

Dying too soon

In puddles of pot plant overflow,

Or in wicked reflexive smacks.

I am as day dreamy then

As I was at 5 when drawing the abstract pillar;

As I am now

With low concentration

Low self esteem

And the dread of my grandfather being almost,

Maybe

Dead.

That was downstairs.

The dark, damp downstairs.

Upstairs three juvenile males

Make a meal of an evening

Throwing around musical jargon,

Entertainment elitism

And good looks in general.

The female, of my name,

Has left

With her art historical,

Anthropological sister

And her mother of a mother.

Tonight I shared with them,

Spontaneously

Food and thought.

And, dissent on the education system.

And, they may have just empathised?

Whatever it may be,

It may be just delusional heart break?

I am alone.

And I feel it.