Tomorrow @ Ishyo Cultural Centre, Kigali

Must I get what the writing means

This itch’s growing unscratched;
You phone calling me
Me text-messaging you
Who said video-skyping will
make the heart grow fonder
a love-to- be-continued
Does it get better?!

I, with all thought, shall label this
Emptiness. This
Voices without yours. This
Faces which include not
the one I long to
kiss. This
Stories that aren’t ours
Emotions still abound. Here.

Here.
Smiling mouths paste easily on sad faces
Resilient, hopeful hearts carefully enclose in a body
A body trapped in a time
A time winding up and out.
That 16 year old virgin was born,
to parents dead now,
with HIV/Aids.

All I long for right now is you
Here. with me.
All they’ve longed for since five
is school, a formal education.
A shot at what they believe me
to have- that forever elusive future.

Everyone seeks a better one.
I found you. You found me. And that
future is not even here yet!

Do I simply accept,
the absence of warmth
your face in my hands
your breath, coming alive on my skin
Reaching out for my heart,
thudding, thumping. Hard. Fleshy.
Shooting out for the heat,
in heat.

Should I get accustomed to it all
Must I?
This which they’ve labeled loneliness
Not I.
This which whose purpose cannot be amounting to nothingness;
All of these voices, words, people
stories, advices, take-home-pangs of guilt…

Tears roll stained by my own aches
This emptiness is flawed;
My heart is filled
to the last one of her veins
with an icy coldness.

Where is the hand,
The hand that knows its way up,
Up inside my windy blouse
Up cupping my heart,
Up firing my love,
warming me up
tearing down,
All my false fears
reassuring me,
with eyes approving…
that this terrible poem
was a worth a listen.

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