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A Poem


There are paintings on the wall


strange things that make no sense to me

tell me nothing about the world,

or about you,

just lines and colours

organised or in disarray.

You tell me there is a box in the attic

filled with scarves

and old things,

but when I open the box

all I see is a picture of you.

It’s black and white

looks like it was taken in a different era

back in the days when men wore top hats,

opened doors for a lady

and then tied her to a stove for good measure.

I throw the lid back on the box,

pick up the lemon that’s lying beside it on the table

and cut it in half with a sharp knife.

The juices flow out of it,

strong, fresh and sour,

I take a bite

and then another.

You look at me

and although you don’t say anything

I know what you’re thinking

so I put my shoes on and I run outside.

Run down the old path

and into a field of rapeseed,

the yellow flowers everywhere,

alone they are simple, ugly and rather bland,

but when one becomes a million, they are beautiful

quite the opposite of the human race

and they make the world look like those abstract paintings

that you love so much.

When I stop running I notice I’ve made a perfect crop circle,

round and simple,

like the lemon I’m still holding in my hand.

I throw it away, as far as I can.

When I get back you look at me,

‘Is everything alright?’ you ask,

I shrug my shoulders

find no way to tell you

that I am not the abstract woman you are looking for.

I am real,

have curves,

am sharp and bland,

colourful and grey at the same time,

with some darkness on the side.

You smile at me,

I smile back.

You get up and kiss me on the nose,

short and to the point

your touch so soft.

‘I love you,’

Your words so simple,

and they come so easily

as if you’ve said them a thousand times before.

I turn and load the dishwasher

while I argue with myself

about the meaning of life.

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