By Noah Vale
She left, but at least she left me with material
And since then, the ink’s been unapologetic.
Batho ba lemogana loetong only once you’re dragging limbs
too tired to fake the smile anymore.
And I’ve gone from casual rhymes
to “A phalana tse re kile re a ne re di letsa!”
Because before I spiral into one of those fits
I just need to say: We could’ve talked.
It was never the earthquake.
It was always the chipped cup.
The little cracks. Tiny fixes we postponed until the whole house flooded.
And that’s me saying I haven’t slept since.
Bo kojwa fela ba ga Ra-Mpeile…
Tell me how, how then would love fail?
When even thorns don’t turn against each other in the dry wind?
And I very well may have lost you.
That, that makes my heart frail.
Not weak, just unable to lie to itself.
Noah Vale is a poet from Serowe, Botswana that writes poetry as an act of reflection and release, turning emotion into language and silence into story. Their work carries echoes of longing, hope, and the search for meaning in ordinary life.
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