A busker he was,
Even without mummy’s approval I liked singers who can’t sing and songs about love that don’t rhyme,
Sonorous selfish lines.
Accompanied him on street corners,
Where the space was filled with clusters of busy passion while I thought ‘keep your cautious coins,
I need change.’
Missed glances before coffee,
Meant I felt his eyes consuming my face and tracing my lips but did I dare breathe a word past my cup?
He let me pay.
Sunday morning pancakes,
Unexpected little light, steamy swirls swimming in gooey syrup. He thought cooking was his forte but,
I don’t like pancakes.
‘Where’d you get those bruises?’ They’d ask.
‘the ones on your soul where the busker would throw back his clenched ideas of denied lust.’
Renamed reality.
The last day,
When the busker looked me right in the heart and told me that this crescendo is overplayed and that,
The concert is over.
Fortissimo,
like the abrupt, wrecking crash of an entire orchestra failing horribly on fragile heart strings.
Who seen it coming?
-Maz McN
Maz McN 