By Ayebare Gillian

The sad tale of places, is that like people,  they depart too,

leaving you to gnaw on your teeth as they cast you out into the cold, wailing, howling, a wounded wolf awaiting the next full moon.

They leave your heart broke, as is with all who dare to love.

And so it was that I fell for a place; a city I’d love to call it,

an oil city, for that it was indeed.

But a city is no place to sell your heart, it’s bartered away and leaves you bereft.

The city that enveloped me sweetly and overwhelmed the very cores of my heart till I burst with gratitude;

The city where I fell in and out of love;

The city where the most beauteous of souls dwelled;

The city of hope to the motherland;

The city akin to the promised land, or so

the honchos said.

The city, the city, Oh the city!

Now, I am no longer in her embrace.

Now,  she only pulses in my heart.

Now, my skin has forgotten the warmth of those beautiful souls, and a phantom touch lingers, a ghost that seeks revenge.

The suitors’ familiar unnerving gaze is a fading art.

Now, my yearnings for the city are met with nothingness;

They no longer suffice, I seduce the city no more.

Now, I know that places depart; their memory hovers like a lost lover.