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.

Instapoem

The loss of your love has crippled me.

I remember those moonlit walks, those

tragically brilliantly lit evenings when the sky was

a tapestry of colours I did not know the names of, those

silent nights when all that could be heard

were our sighs. I miss you and so, every night

I try to forget myself, getting drunk

with a grim determination.

And writing instant poetry, seventeen lines

that describe my grief, three outlining the joy we never had, two

longing for what could have been; eleven the tragic

after effects and one reserved for the future. Your love

made me into a poet. And now, all I have is

characterless poems.

On Happiness

Do you hear me, sometime? When I

cry out in the middle of the night, somewhere

do you also wake up with cold sweat on your palms? Do you

remember me, and have your sleep disturbed with

dreams of me?

It is not a happy state, I have a crowd of bottles, each

clamoring to testify in favor of my love, there is

an alcohol-sodden revolution waiting in my kitchen, waiting

to erupt in my support, a whole nation suppurating with

guilt and too much drink.

Tomorrow, you will probably not know me and there will be

shadows

who will ask you what to make of us. You will

probably say nothing, maintain that dignified silence which

is another way of admitting defeat. I will not. I will

wait in the silent café by the seaside, willing

you to come inside, unburdened by my loss, complete

with a radiant smile, that tells the world

that there are different kinds of happiness. And

one is more than most people get.