I watch you from afar through a kaleidoscope of humours Wondering just when our day will truly begin Would a cup of coffee or a stroll through the garden Be enough to earn a soul’s elusive pardon? You wake with the gravity of a thousand rainy Sundays And I, with my incurable habit of being wrong in several ways. The kitchen is a minefield of unwashed plates and glares Where your patience—so thin, so brittle, so beyond repairs— Vanishes like steam from a kettle that refuses to cease. It’s a vulgar talent we have, isn’t it? Distrubing each other’s peace. They say love is a shrine, but for us, it’s a narrow hall Where we trip over the bitterness we’ve gathered, wall to wall. I endure your sharpest tongue; you tolerate my hollow sighs And so we survive another Tuesday under leaden skies. It’s hardly the romance of the silver screen, I’ll admit... But who else would endure my lack of charm and lack of wit? I watch you from afar through a kaleidoscope of humours Wondering just when our day will truly begin Would a cup of coffee or a stroll through the garden Be enough to earn a soul’s elusive pardon? So, don your heaviest coat and your most exquisite disdain I’ll promise not to speak of "love" and cause you further pain. If living together is a trial that the heavens have designed At least we are two castaways of the very same kind. The garden awaits with flowers that never asked to be born Perhaps there, amidst the weeds, I’ll find a way not to feel so forlorn. A stroll through the garden... A stroll through the garden...
