What am I holding on for when it feels like it’s already over? 

The doors that you opened so systematically and carefully are all locked away inside a plain set of cardboard boxes now.  It’s retirement time.  No more pretty words or double edged swords.  I’m tired of this all.

Maybe I’ll bring out the set of boxes for the next set of dashing eyes and small town promises, but for now please, no more.

I’ll plan my escape so that you won’t notice.

Your lips will never forget mine anyways.


Sometimes it’s just easier to leave the pieces hanging rather than to stitch them back together.

Stitching takes time and patience.  It’s a balance of retaining the old while also integrating the new.

But sometimes stitching over the same hole may lead to bigger cuts.  The cuts into irreversible rips.  The rips into hanging threads and dangling pieces.

And to that I say,

“Close your eyes and keep on trekking.  Backwards and forwards, sideways and onwards.”

Leave the hanging pieces to dry.

And leave the irreversible rips to dust.

To me and to you, they’re all just scraps anyways.

“Don’t be too soft,” she would always say.  “Don’t be too gentle.” 

“Men don’t like soft,” she would say in hushed whispers. “Men don’t like gentle.”

Hardened.  Blocked.  Like iron.  Like metal.