A random tale by Kweku Abeiku
Harmattan arrives with cracked lips and cold air,
Yet somehow, love warms what the sun cannot.
The wind may scrape the skin like sandpaper,
But your presence softens everything,
like shea butter melting into thirsty palms.
My voice comes out rough,
hoarse from dust and silence,
But your name glides from my tongue
like rain in a barren field —
sudden, soothing, necessary.
Your smile glimmers through the foggy dawn,
brighter than a thousand suns,
and even when the world turns white and brittle,
You remain colour —
something warm to hold onto.
We sit wrapped in one cloth,
sharing breath like borrowed fire,
your fingertips tracing galaxies
on my pale, flaked arm —
reminding me that even cracked skin
can feel like poetry.
Harmattan dries the air,
but not this affection.
It steals moisture,
but not tenderness.
It makes the world brittle,
but our hearts remain whole.