Morning Sun

This evening, I realized something crucial about

us. There is no us. You and I, there is

only that. And memories, and thousand year long

silences

that sprawl between our words. Silences

like a lazy pillow fight, drifting down on us gently, like

feathers torn from their companions, torn silk staring at us

like the gaping hole in togetherness. You and I, not

us. Every morning I make coffee and the tinkle

of steel spoon against china blends perfectly

with the evidence of the night’s desperate alcoholism- our bid

to push each other further apart, merging, with

our desperate urge to not forget. But, I think, that

must be only me. Or is it?

Do you also somewhere wish the coffee

was stronger in the morning, because the sun, at 6am, makes

the eyes water when stared at directly?

Details

I watch out the window because

there is not much else, I can do this night. Outside

it is dark, and not much else. There

is not much to speak of, not much to

forget. The road outside this café window is

slow moving traffic. Start and stop. Like

life. Windows.

It is raining. Somewhere in some universe

these droplets are falling on you as you

straighten your hand and pull that

notebook

over your forehead. Four hundred years of

history versus four minutes of rain. That book

of poems. The library would not take it back. But

better it sick with a fever than you.

Something is amiss in I

remembering you. There is no coherent structure, no

beautiful whole. Too many details, which

perhaps, I remember too well.

Incoherent

I am almost always angry these days, a

failed whatever it was that I was. I wake up early

in the mornings, before the sun, and

go collecting pebbles. Desiderata, of grand lives

stuff left over while constructing roads.

You know, it is difficult to keep track of

things when you are drunk, an alcoholic. Disintegration

is a beautiful word. Do you see

your idols crumbling in front of your eyes? So many

truths turning into lies? I will be

There for you.

 When did you last see me? Was it before or after

they pronounced my soul dead? I cannot

remember, so they must have been right, but I

still collect pebbles, desiderata of grand lifes. What you and I

could have been.

Such an attractive phrase. So much disappointment there.

Like a road that leads nowhere. You. I.

Bracketed by unfulfilled promises.