I still can’t believe I like dark chocolate,
and pesto, and a few other things I once found unbearable.
Does that mean I’m capable of changing,
or that I just don’t care anymore?
But it can’t possibly be the latter,
because when I think about it,
there are more bits and bobs I’ve learnt
not to like over the years;
case in point, an indentation on my ring finger
is long gone, but it still hurts
I had it in the first place.
Do you remember that feeling
when you finally find out what the melody is
that has been haunting you for months,
after you’ve heard it just once by chance,
only to be played all of a sudden
by the violas and cellos—an ostinato
carved into the black vinyl—as a farewell
to the kind of reserved innocence
you often only begin to savour
when it’s already too late? I do.
If only you had realised then
that you could survive on a single act
of desperation.
Whether I close my eyes or the curtains, nothing makes me so bold as to strip
the act of performed nightly routines of their supposed innocence,
and yet here and there I catch a flicker of doubt creeping onto the page,
occasionally jamming the typewriter or spilling out in an inkblot
as if it were the revenge of a worn-out fountain pen I was given when I came of age.
At least the pencil maintains a semblance of decency—which is a little unsettling
since it’s not my favourite writing implement—so I wonder if it might help me
retrieve from the rubble I’ve hoarded over the years the one word I need most.
Perhaps then I will learn what I’ve been looking for so desperately all this time,
even if it’s only enough for a brass plaque on the backrest of a park bench.
hidden pilcrow 