Sense and Sentimentality

My apologies but it was not love.

It was an itch in my pants --- how unfortunate that you had to be the one to help me scratch it.
And yet, calling to mind a beautiful reason neither you nor I could afford,
I fell into the trappings of it.
Finding ourselves pantsless, the itch had nowhere to go but up,
the way smoke billows like waves licking the heavens,
how you tend to study the sky, regardless the weather,
rather than write on the sidewalk that would eventually lead to me.
Still, you belong in lines drawn in the sand, fleeting, teasing,
your presence an erotic joke cast by the shore, gone by nightfall.
By then I shall have been asleep, dreaming dreams that disappear in the morning.

So no, it wasn't love.
And yes, no need to look miserable when we kiss
or pretend to care about the hurt, an ache I'd rather miss.

---
Because I had just begun reading The Unbearable Lightness of Being.

One more stone

Cast
cast away
cast away with metaphysical precision
cast away with metaphysical precision from your perch above the clouds
cast away with metaphysical precision from your perch above the clouds and proclaim:

"Yes, I am without fault. Without sin, holier than thou."

In the streets
far, far below from your perch above the clouds
people stumble in their lives, bleak and heavy with imagined desires
hacking away at a domain in which they wander
fanning their hands in exhaustion
because -- and you scoff at this -- they lack the means nor the right
to cast
cast away
cast away with metaphysical precision.

Grumpy, meandering thoughts

"Oh, look," said the Universe disapprovingly. "Tata is happy again. Better fix that." And so I fell, once again, into the throes of a truly terrible cold. My third for the year, and how truly horrible at that that I finally dragged my lazy bollocks to the doctor. To which, adoring V quipped as we stepped into the waiting area of the Las Piñas Medical Center OPD, "You're 35% cured! Going to the doctor just speeds things up."

Coughing incessantly, contending with mild headaches and a stuffed nose have made me philosophical: I can't blame the bug for wreaking havoc in my body. The little critter, like all of us, just wants to live or to be more apt, fulfill its purpose. How unfortunate for the little bugger! Achieving what it ought to be at the expense of others.

Stop.

All sorts of crazy have been crawling out of my woodwork because what I've been attempting to write hasn't pushed through so, hello, here's a totally useless scene from a sporadic writing life.