(I’m not talking about love.
Not the rush of lust,
Nor the soft smiles,
Or the vulnerability of hugs.)
I’m walking into a paint shop,
It’s great for relaxation!
But why with every brush stroke,
Am I repainting your consternation?
I’m waiting at the doctor’s desk,
There’s no patients here, you’re free.
But you choose to rearrange magazines,
Instead of acknowledging me.
I’ve stopped in airport security,
I’m actually at the zoo.
Her hands are pushing into my body,
And she makes me face the queue.
(So maybe I am talking about love,
And how you see me back to front.
You’ve decided who I am already,
You never gave me a chance.)
Fatimah A, UK