we are done writing
for this summer
our words
trickled out in cautious hope
as she wove the squirrels into our story
and he stood, refusing to let another person leave.
I traced the interstate with two fingers
in the misty glass, and
again in the small oval that was my window
three planes later
I’m rolling down a mountain on my hands and
knees
a small red dot waits on my screen.
sleep well, banana.
by Kekelime
my memories, they are not of Ethiolo
of small feet winding
down a dusty path to a water-well worn
with the chatter of women, girls I used to know
I can’t see the dirt, red against your ankles
hear the call of buckets to one another
sloshing in the sway of hips
flip flops mingled in the early morning light
I remember knives flying
tongues sliding
across the smooth expanse of the language we shared
stretched through our fingers as peppers danced, green
into your pan
the screech of a wheelbarrow
bare feet slapped
across the bricks, padded
through the sand
I remember
sticky heat, and
breeze through my hair
waves lapping
against a shore that curves into the distance
lost blue in a city sky
by Kekelime
it’s a funny sort of feeling
of longing for places
you know you cannot return to
and even if you could
it wouldn’t be the same.
it’s a funny sort of feeling
to dream of a life you once had
one where every bit of you
almost
wished you were somewhere else
(far away)
that you could start over again
and then you wake up and find that
you got your wish
and you are no happier
it’s a funny sort of feeling
wishing you could turn back time
relive part of your life
just so you could have what you used to but
you know you can’t
because Time has only one Master
it’s a funny sort of feeling
when you start to forget
and eventually all you have left of places you once knew like the back of your hand are
bits and pieces of sound and smell
fragments of faces and wisps of songs you used to listen to every day but now
now you can’t stand to anymore because all you hear is
everything you used to have
by Africameleon
it wasn’t perfect
no, far from it
but we somehow found perfection
through wakeup calls and
muddy afternoons
through endless nights and
sleepy skies
through glowing embers and
fiery grins
and the pitchblack sky
raining streaks of colour
chaos intertwining with
shouts of glee
and falling asleep to floating circlets of colour
and the biting cold
to muffled giggles and whispered:
‘nights
it wasn’t perfect, no
but it was perfecter than I could’ve
ever asked for
by Africameleon
There is not enough time.
There is never enough time
From the moment we meet
I am thinking of the end; maybe
Because I have done this before
I’ve done this too many times before
And every ending is too soon so
There are two choices in response to that truth.
Courage or cowardice, love or fear,
Connection or solitude.
I have never claimed to be courageous,
But I’m trying.
Dear God I’m trying and it’s harder
Than I thought it would be…
There is not going to be enough time
For me to love you in
And the coward in me says don’t try
But the image of God in my soul
Says otherwise.
So I’m trying.
by Ghanaperu
There will be no trace
of me, here
after I have left
The colours of my paintings on the walls
are not stains
the laughter of the memories
won’t stay forever
and everything that ever made this
space mine
is transportable
I knew enough when I came here
to plan it this way
So you’re standing at the door
smiling for the hope of a future
but I
can feel the suitcase handle in my fingers
and I don’t remember myself
anymore
Does that make me
a bad person?
If I have shuttered my mind
and heart and soul,
folded my memories away into dusty boxes
and stacked them in the back
of the attic, is that
weakness?
All I know is
you have never left
like how I have left
and you can’t understand –
impermanence flows through
my veins as the very blood of my only hope
for survival
So I will smile and wave
at you in the doorway
and gather up my belongings
to carry myself away in
I can never return
because
nothing is ever the same again
by Ghanaperu
I’m going back.
Staring at the paper in my
hands, all is dark around me except
this one fact.
I’m going back.
Did I choose this?
Do I want this?
My sister grins, wide and knowledgeable
as if this choice will define
the joy of my future.
I don’t think I meant to choose this.
But how could she know? For her
it is home and light and safety, nothing
dark in her history.
In the dark of the evening, all
the memories return like shadows and ghosts
slamming through the walls around me
and I have nothing to say to them, so
my eyes are tightly shut as if that will help…
Am I going crazy?
Fighting against things that aren’t even here…
I’m going back.
There is no choice now, not anymore. Only
the plane tickets in my hand
and the excitement of my friends
and the look in my sister’s eyes
when she tells me she is glad.
I think, I tell her carefully,
I think I’d rather die.
by Ghanaperu
I know about this,
this dark stillness illuminated
only by a single streetlight.
orange glow over everything
and we try
to forget
that we ever cared.
I know about this,
this quiet loneliness surrounded
by unending pavement.
dotted lines marking the way
to nowhere
just like
every other time before.
But
rewind, lighting fast,
because this hasn’t happened
yet
Today is the beginning,
shy smiles across the room
before we know anything
and I want to tell you,
I am a prophet and love
always hurts in the end but please,
please don’t
keep your distance.
by Ghanaperu
I’m leaving my bags packed
just in case I need to run away
but I won’t tell you that – it’s easier
if you never have to know
about impermanent.
The demons sound like prophets
now, and I’m living out
every word they speak in slow
motion, suitcase handle in my fingers
like a lifeline to freedom.
Do you know what I mean
when I say I don’t want to
be alone?
I have traveled before
and I am not afraid
of losing myself to it, I’m
not afraid of drowning in it.
No, it is breathing that
takes all the work; staying
that is so hard for me.
I will tell you a secret.
Sometimes, the airplane seats
feel like home, and I don’t
want to ever leave them, sometimes
you aren’t worth unpacking my
bags for and I’m not sorry, sometimes
I think drowning
would be easier.
You’re yelling, yelling
that my life is not my own
that there is a value on it
and I’m wasting the currency,
my life is not my own and I must
keep my hands off it.
Do you know what I mean
when I say I don’t want to
be alone?
Except
I don’t say it.
by Ghanaperu
