Poetry

The man has grown cold.

“I am that clumsy human, always loving,
loving, loving. And loving. And never leaving. You are a stone. We weep
together and make a bed for rain.”

— Frida
Kahlo 
   

The
man has grown cold,
my
touch does nothing for him.
We
kiss because we must,
and
the taste repulses me.
The
man has grown cold,
the
thought of another in his shoes
welcomes
him with open arms
and
I fear for my heart.
The
man has grown cold,
He
speaks to me
And
yet my soul hears nothing
He
is speaking to a corpse.
The
man has grown cold,
And
I am convinced
That
it is merely a reflection.
Maybe,
just maybe
The
man has grown cold
Because
I grew cold.

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2 Comments

  • Reply evelyn karungi April 21, 2013 at 4:55 pm

    once again…I am left applauding

  • Reply Nora Kirabo April 21, 2013 at 7:15 pm

    Thank you so much, kindred spirit 🙂

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