Iron cactus

When you flashed your smile on the shop window
and disappeared in a blinding glare

down the spiralling manifestations
of what we called love
deep into the iron cactus,

I, tumbling downhill
at a deafening speed
while trying hard not to shatter,

was left to applaud with resignation
the silence between us.

Awkward still,
you’re holding me to a gaze,
practising how to control and let go.

Clutching your soul inside your white Louis Vuitton bag,
quietly picking at the bones of silence.

I realized it’s all about believing
that you’re in exile, but not facing extinction,
acting all grown up and not breaking down violently at 4am.

But mostly we are all in exile
holding each other to a crowded gaze
trying hard not to shatter.

Just to test the waters,
you invent a thrill,
another plaything without substance —

Pass me the Queen of Spades
let me see what you’ve got?

And the moon like wet paper
cracks from side to side
not just inside your little white bag
but all around us,

down the spiralling manifestations
of what we called love
deep into the iron cactus.

For all that matters
I am left clutching at remnants
cascading at a deafening speed
down that lonely shop window.

So hard not to shatter
when you’re broken deep inside.

But maybe
if you could stay here with me
and help stretch out the silence between us,

the wild trembling
of the evening breeze at dusk
can be put to rest.

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