Let these stories

Let love be a woman, bare and oiled.

Carrying you to her dreams while breathing songs over your head.

Let her be a knitted music sewed with trembling affection.

Wild gazes and the wonder of a poet.

Let love be the stories you will tell in a slow pace.

As you grasp the magic of an event.

The bruise of nostalgia, the humour in sadness.

Let death be an old man -a reminder of an end to everything.

A prophet returning to the memory of a home he left behind.

A chiding mother saying your name over the noise.

“Ade, where are you? Let’s go home”

Let nostalgia be the restless child that won’t go home.

That tugs your cloth for plays and song

that gives the sloppiest kisses.

That leaves you torn and wanting.

Let today be the day you prayed for

When you trembled and broke.

Over the ache of everything you’d ever know.


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