I Did Not Kiss Her This Year

I was doing the dishes today,
I saw her outside.
Through the glass, she stared.
Right in my eye.
Looking for answers.

I had none to give.
And I swear I would run to her
Hold her by her waist and kiss her.
But I didn’t.
I did not kiss her this year.

We used to be a thing.
She was around for just a quarter year,
I’d wait for her the months 9.
But this year she was hurt,
She found me married on her return.

And as I looked in her eyes,
The pain was visible.
The hurt was evident.
Her eyes termed me Brutus.
Her departure was near.

But my hands were tied.
My wife, a doctor, didn’t allow.
To go out with the clothing warm.
Lady Winters departure without a kiss
Is not my fault.


I Looked In The Mirror & Saw A Face

I’m serious.
This is not a joke.
I looked in the mirror and saw a face.

It was nothing scary.
Not at all like those horror films.
But it was indeed a face.

It wasn’t creepy.
It wasn’t the face of a stranger.
But it was indeed someone I used to know.

I might even call him familiar.
The beard has grown, the hair unkempt.
But the feature were just the same as I remembered.

I don’t know.
It wasn’t a pleasure seeing him again.
On the contrary I never quite liked him.

But c’est la vie!
Ghosts from the past aren’t adorable.
I swear, I looked in the mirror and saw a face.

The Stairwell

Twas nothing to the common eye,
The stairwell was what was seen.
But see what perspective shades
And everything changes what it has been.

It was the downward spiral of a common man.
The path to success to other.
To one it meant nothing
And to the other, it compared to nothing.

But it was all it was for most, id est,
A stairwell.

Ye seeks what ye want and that is all that matters.


Peering into the soul,
My friend, a story once he told.
Of how he loved to blot the page
And make his own Rorschach test.

Similarly, I have this tiny habit
To read people and their habits.
Just to make my soul and brain age,
I do this every day without fail.

To be in love with melancholy,
Reading the ends first in a story.
To adore the lovely petrichor,
To sit and hear the sounds of shore.

Habits unknown. Personalized.
Ungoverned, unrecognized.
Secretive and yet explored.
To the world, they seem odd.


Lutalica (noun): The Part of Your Identity that Does Not Fit Into Categories.



P.s. Check out John’s YouTube channel, The Dictionary Of Obscure Sorrows, right here. He makes amazing words like the one this poem is all about, Lutalica.