20 desperate acts of love

with nothing under her sleeves but a pack of cigarettes she obsessively lights to pass time, she silently sits and waits. albeit nervous and wary. patiently she combs the imaginary landscape of cities wandered, loved and hated. where is the little boy who once cried wolf? and now, people pass by without any second thoughts of the whispers that travel from one ear to another. i am witness to your little secrets. i have exorcised my past. a peace with history. a peace with stories weaved in between the strands of my hair. i clutched those stories close to my heart  to remind me of the madness that burns in my blood.

i am with you. just waiting at the turning, i am with you.  the ghost in your head reminding you of one-for-the road experiences. those that shall rarely crosses your path. 

 i am without you in your quest to reason. for i must have long fallen out of the ordinary simple pleasures. those which come along every sunday morning at the park. quiet afternoons. quiet days punctuated by desperate acts of love. 

20 desperate acts of love trace the path of humiliating human experiences. a primal desire to be wired to our most deepest and darkest desires. the emancipating shadow of relief that overtakes our bodies as we lie down, fall flat on the floor, feet wide open, in complete surrender. exhausted and yet at peace. calm and quiet. the doorway is wide open. the windows swaying to the torrential winds that rarely come to visit. she picks herself up, sits down once again and lights up that last cigarette. a signal for change. the transcendental illusion of stasis.