(Again, some more formless scribbling. This comes from a personal, fairly distorted place, so it’s OK not to love or even understand it, but I hope it speaks to a soul or two.)

Featured Image Credit: Chinwe Chigbu ( @chinweworldwide )

Coldplay lied. After what we’ve been through, I don’t think I still believe in magic.

Long hugs can never get around draping the pieces of broken boys, the warmth just can’t get through the rubble.

Then again, I can’t force you to text back.

Really, what am I supposed to say to you?

Trust me, the detachment was never about you. I mean, there was some intellectual catching up to do, but I apologize for subjecting your emotions to chessboard antics.

I understand if you feel that Love is an ocean and that adult males of Lagos, unfortunately, tend to act like jars of Gamalin 20 with all the attendant toxicity.

I still am not sure if it’s really me you miss, or it’s just my tongue you crave for.

I understand the vengefulness, brother. You’re mad because your erstwhile lover had a stronger connection with me than your frequent visits to her inner dome could ever create.

I am still drawn to the alphabets of your name, and the way they roll out of the back of my throat.

I get it now, the novelty has worn off. It took longer than it usually would, but it was never a concrete arrangement. The towel is still here, just in case.

What do I do with all this soul-reaching want, this yearning, this pining for you?

It’s an all too familiar cycle now: fall in love with you, believe in you, fight to get noticed by you, have their eyes tire out, slide into indifference, take a hike.
Of course, you’d blame the wiring.

It’s funny how stealing nightly kisses in front of mosques and spending afternoons together at quiet parks just find a way to evaporate into windy silence.

I wrote a letter suffixed by a poem. The blue ticks tell me all I need to know. Is your stomach still flat like Seyi Shay’s?