Spin spells with words and photographs and stories, long-lost, holding-back-the-years.
Of envy perhaps, and that sad sequential siren song of love and loss —
How it always gets complicated, never choosing its words, always feeling heat.
Till it burns up everything and you are left with ashes in your open palm.
And scorch-marks on your lips where those unnecessary words left their trail.
I don’t have to ask — I know you would take them all back.
But then again, you can’t, and so life becomes a tangled web.
Your feelings are plucked like harp strings by the fingers of a stranger.
You are only twelve, only thirteen, only fourteen-fifteen-sixteen.
Only lost, only lonely, only deeper than fair face and serious eyes…
And you would feel frustrated, staring at that lock of hair you cut so long ago.
Tied with blue ribbon, it sits in that envelope with your confession that never mattered.
That was your earliest initiation into the world of complications,
It all seemed so simple then — just falling and flying and jumping and giggling…
But you are reminded that innocence once lost is lost.
And so you spin your spells of love and loss and lunacy.
Feel that flush on your cheeks accompanying laughter.
How the rain is so refreshing on your hot face and your lips, parted, waiting for a lover’s kiss —
But who are we to talk of kisses?
And who are we to talk of love and loss?
GYAH…my brain is fried. I just needed to poke something out of it. I don’t even know what this poem means.