A Thousand Decembers

We pieced together a thousand Decembers and homecomings,

crafted from moonlight nights and personal jokes,

thought that the stone of us would never be cracked.

Until it did.

Just a simple glance accompanied by a word,

the gaze impossible to avert,

the utmost silence reverberates.

We dressed the quiet like strangers,

bound by pride and exhaustion circles.

No leaving,

no unapologetic declaration,

no prefabricated apology,

no Nollywood explosion.

No, we went back to the old place.

One glass, two glasses,

gradually filling with the amber,

the liquid pooling.

The silence is uproarious.

After angry childish nomads struggled their way back,

a gentle unvoiced revelry could not be sifted through.

The deep sound rang out.

Everything does not require to be articulated eventually.

Some merely need respite,

between laughter and sip,

once nurtured by kindness.

The Pen That Never Runs Dry

Sip & Support