Re: the girl with a tale that's bigger than her hands

"In time, her tale grew old,
her hands grew old,
pages she gathered from the sidewalk
tucking the future far behind."

And in time, you realise,
your eyes are much like your mother's,
albeit a bit smaller - dark and harsh-lined,
hiding the artwork of concern
that's splattered across your iris.

You realise your hands are starting to wrinkle,
barely at the quarter of your life,
and lavender-scented handcreams
are becoming more familiar,
from muffling your own mouth.

You realise that fate is a comedian,
breaking all the roads to your hometown
like a gecko's tail, KL nothing but a reminder
of the funerals, whilst you never quite bothered
to ask the web if geckos' tails grow back -

too busy asking fate for an explanation
for bringing a boy from that funeral town,
a thousand miles away, who keeps sailing away,
but has your heart beating in his hands
despite never quite touching them.

To her, KL is a funeral town, home was burnt down,
and you can't visit the soul whose arms
became your home, you can't hear him whisper
in your ear, and not be reminded of an end.

28-10-2014
5:01 PM

This is in reaction to an older poem of mine: "A tale bigger than a little girl's hands".