I often lie half interested in sleeping, half in reading a book
Then I look around and see my diary pages are fluttering under the ceiling fan
It's set to a low speed, I like a little gust of wind every now and then
The gentle noon often fades as I hear the pages rustle, yet I never write
My poems have all been written, and my pain is out of ink it seems
My pen, broken, metaphorical I must say as I pat my chest over my heart
Only to remember, I had burnt three fingers thinking of you whilst cooking
Who else grabs a skillet that was making an omlette by the edges?
Gently too, I would, wouldn't I? Oh and wouldn't be the first time I did, half lost at missing you
I have these blisters, the finger prints are faded, so are some lines on the hand
Am not into palmistry, who cares about a few missing lines on my palm, not you, not me
It's the same fate that has torn my mind asunder, that is how fate works, doesn't it?
And here you ask if I love you of all that I do, That I do, and probably overdo too
So then let September pass, this evening will end and October will arrive, and another year
I would be here, wanting to hold you closer, or maybe to make a coffee for, cook Thai too
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