Your presence was like a light,
Illuminating the colours
of the world.
But I stood in that doorway
and looked at you—

Mr.
Soft-eyed,
Soul-loud.
English-born,
African-raised.
Melodic voice,
Religiously sound.

Giving me butterflies
that lower my gaze.
Mr. Music,
Melody of my soul.

I’ve lived today
Somewhere in the past

I lived the future
Worries

The tomorrow of
Yesterday

Has long been lived and
Worried

So the day of
Today
Has passed with no peace

The coincidences of this year
have all gathered up
in my head.
And like a hot air balloon,
they’ve filled it so high
that my thoughts now float—

with ideas like:
you killed that spider for me,
you came to see me that day,
you knew my favorite poet
and my favorite travel destination.

But every hot air balloon
must eventually
return to land,
its passengers
mesmerized
by all the views
of skies.


But I am not ready to
leave these coincidences
to the skies.

Your eyes —
the colour brown
they are not,


Chocolate melted
in the sun
that became a pool
from the deep
heat of our land.

Coffee burnt lovingly
at the bottom of a pot —

Because when your
eyes pull mine,

I smell home.

The walls of the prayer room
in a hospital
are bulletproof and soundproof.

Or maybe—
it is all prayer rooms.

When the doors close,
the rest of the world
ceases to exist.

But I think—
it may be
the women’s
prayer room.

God built the rooms
separate—
for me to pour
my heart to Him,


and for them
to lift the pieces
shattered
by the outer world.