I am fine, not really
he’s a bastard
that we’ve not yet mastered
Coffee at the office
cigarette in hand
cold shoulder brushes
it’s winter, it rushes
I wore my shoes
I love them so, they made it from Paris
and moved me, knowing I’m careless
I sat on the damp benches
my butt got cold, I don’t care
I looked at them
If you covered the feet of others
how would you be?
would you be scratched and browned?
or simply forgotten in a box and frowned?
I looked at them
in the puddle of water, soaking
darkening from the edges and silent
The pressure you felt
when I tipped to kiss him
and the lightness when I jumped
to hug Jim
The compliments you heard
in Arabic, French and English
made you feel like such a prince so British!
Then I asked
If someone else had gotten you from France
you would have missed my glance?
If a man got you, would you compliment his suit
or simply, just accompany his commute?
All of a sudden
it rained, heavy rain
looking like long chains
I wanted to move, they fixated
I couldn’t find a reason why this related
I pulled and pulled, yet they maintained
Could it be? That they have a mind of their own
with foretold stories, that they plan all alone?
Could it be? That they are the ones that made me wait
the extra 5 minutes to see that handsome hunk
with the free spirit?
Could it be? That they turned me right
instead of left, to discover a library
lit so bright?
I still tried to move
I am drenched now
and they are still nailed to the ground
Suddenly a door opened on the terrace
and an umbrella peeked
He had the same shoes I did
in different hues
one of the very few
My eyes opened wide
“Could it be?”
why are you still here” he said
I simply replied
looking down at them
“Oh I get it now”