Old Barstool.

In the twilight

hours of the day,

I sit down

on a bar stool

in a bar below

my apartment.

Smoke inhales

the scent

of every other

kind.

I sit and

drink my

shot of whiskey

poured from

a very old

decanter, old

just like me.

I have been

coming

a long time

to this bar

where the ounces

I consumed once

could not be

matched by

your magnificence,

and everybody

knew I was

a heavy drinker.

We had

a cheery moment

and then

you went

back to your

life and I

to something

akin to life.

Because in

that moment

I just had

given my all.

I sit in the

bar,on the

barstool,

old with a

forgetful mind

but you

have been

embalmed in

my mind,

and it will

never wash

away with

any amount

of whiskey

I pour into myself,

and I know,

because,

I have tried.

 

Black Piano.

Pressing each key

on this exquisite

piano,I reel in

the sounds created.

How familiar they

seem,to my ears

and senses.

You have been

gone a long

time now,

and there is

no looking back.

But you left your

redolence in this

room which mixes

so well with beautiful

chords of this piano.

Hitting the black

and white keys,

as the symphony

is created, I look

around and see you

in your marvellous

existence.

Days of rose

petals, cover up

the mouldy walls

of now as I play

your favourite tune

on my favourite

piano.

It is grand my love

like you;

the piano,

the scene,

and me sitting

with a half-empty

bottle of cheap whiskey,

playing the

black piano.

 

Sunflower.

I once

bought a

sunflower to

give it to

a girl,

she said

she liked it

and it was

her favourite.

The sun

was over

our heads

that day

in the sky.

The clouds

were nowhere

to be seen.

We held

hands like

they do

in the movies.

And walked

the lengths

of the park

which had

no sunflowers.

She had

to go

she said,

it was late.

And I complied,

foolishly.

She thanked

once more

for the sunflower

and told me

she liked it,

it was her favourite.

The sun,

that day

eventually set

upon the park

with no sunflowers.

With what

seemed an

overcast sky,

I received

a call on

my telephone.

It was her,

and that

moment,the

thundering clouds

did not

bother me.

She said,

she had

a good time,

but she

could not

meet me

anymore.

She said,

she liked

the sunflower,

but the rose

was

now her

favourite.

And then

the clouds

thundered

muting her

voice over

the phone.

It rained dogs,

that night

and it seemed

that the sun

would never

come up again.

And I never

bought any

girl a sunflower

since then.

Nostalgia

Days olden

like the stale pages of

a book;

with a rose in

between

dead,yet beautiful.

Reliving past

is not an option;

that will be

living in

a fool’s paradise.