Rogue Breeze
Caught her loitering by a flower bush –
A most unusual sight –
Then realized she wasn’t loitering at all
But rather immersed in a sensory celebration.
I asked her to show me the slow-motion side of life
Since I had made a habit of rushing
For fear of what I’d feel
If I dared stop.
She humbly harassed my assumption
That she wasn’t rushing too;
It was less a matter of time
And more a matter of how we perceive it.
Alright, I could be sold
On the idea I wasn’t young at all,
Merely a rogue breeze
Passing through then coming back again.
So I paused while walking onward,
Looked down while glancing up
To savour the roadside bouquets
She favoured with her wandering gaze.
Unmade Love
I’m pretty good at love
Just not good at making it
Since it’s already there
Ready to share.
Can go through the motions
Enough to doubt the doubt
That I don’t know the difference
Between a bed sheet and a meet-and-greet.
But as soon as we reach the part
When I’m supposed to grow apart
From the notion of the whole
For the sake of the best halves,
I stumble in the dark
Because the lights are still turned on
And I fail to dissociate,
So determined to innovate.
Except no one wants something new;
Sing the standards, play the pop hits
Unless there’s a damned good reason
To introduce an untested melody.
Therefore I stand to go,
Accepting I’m no match
For unspoken expectations
Of how love should be made.
Maybe Should Have Left It At Dinner
Pleasantries and hesitancies
Over a plate of enchiladas,
A pair of sore-tooth voids
Going in for their routine filling.
Afterwards came the invitation
No man can really refuse
Despite old moral objections
And the fear it’s a lead-in to disappear.
I was a novice at pretending not to be a novice,
Dwelling on the ice cream pint slightly too long
Before inching close enough
To build a bridge between our breaths.
Kept things fairly PG
As she fed me Indian songs and their meanings
While exchanging questions of preference and history
Neither was eager to answer.
Then without warning, she drifted off
Leaving me to sit up the rest of the night
Lamenting my lack of technique
And thinking maybe we should have left it at dinner.
Too Little Time
As a kid I got used to goodbyes
Hidden within hellos,
The passing greeting from a cousin
We then didn’t see after that.
Never protested their prevalence
Nor lamented the lingering sorrow,
Presuming that bookends
Were what guaranteed meaning something to someone.
It hasn’t become any harder,
It hasn’t become any easier
To bridge bosoms for an endless three seconds
And say “See you when I see you.”
There’s always an unspoken feeling
That doesn’t make it to the microphone,
Be it long-withheld gratitude
Or a simple memory resurfaced.
Walking away with a souvenir,
A pair of shoes gifted from wanderer to wanderer
So that we can look down and realize
We still share the same road.
Sam Hendrian is a lifelong storyteller striving to foster empathy and compassion through art. Originally from the Chicago suburbs, he now resides in Los Angeles, where he primarily works as an independent filmmaker and has just completed his first feature film Terrificman, a deeply personal ode to the power of human kindness. You can find his poetry and film links on Instagram at @samhendrian143.
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