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Sometimes I wonder
if there was really any way
for you to actually manage
reaching out to me
on real time,
because you’re always on time
like, I can no longer count
how often you’ve
come through right when
I was thinking of you, or
when I act or speak cryptic
out of innocent uncertainty
of what I really feel, or
the unwillingness to show you
the extent of my need
either because I
have a proud, proud heart, or
was letting the world’s
he say, she say
sway my opinion on
how to do things right,
somehow you always still
pick the right interpretation
as if the way I move,
or think, is a lullaby
sung in your soul’s
native tongue,
and you don’t even
have to try, you could
talk to my heart subliminally
while it sleeps, while
my mind’s lethargic limbs
defenselessly drift
among symbols who live
with their own rules,
on their own terms,
like multiple rainbows
defying the laws of physics, or
a gritty textured symphony
of light on bathroom tiles, or
walking among manikins
and their unglamorous shadows
at 7 a.m. when the mall
is closed, the end
of the ball of yarn
anchored on your love,
and no matter how unraveled
it gets, I am
not lost at all.

London When it Snows; Big Ben and Lovers
“London When it Snows; Big Ben and Lovers”
by photographer Kayode Okeyode