Imagine.

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Can you see?
How
The rain imitates you.
Forces me to hold my breath
and anticipate this touch.

I am akin to
wild things
like rain on a hot summer day.

I can stand in the balcony for hours
Let the rain wet my hair
and slide down slowly
through my loosely hanging shirt.

Like your hands tracing their way
on my skin.
Rain feels familiar today.
As if I could collect you. All of you
in my palm.

Look above.
Even the clouds are jealous.

 

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Seasons.

Winter was harsh last year. The kind that makes your lips turn white and forget what your lover tastes like.
 
I have come to accept you leaving, as changing seasons. And today, on the first day of summer all my plants have bloomed again. But that does not mean I have forgotten last winter.
 
That does not mean I have forgotten writing to you, and then hiding them back somewhere in old notebooks. It’s summer now, but every time I find anything I wrote to you, it all flashes back.
The same nostalgia that I try and avoid every day. In plaid shirts, and when I occasionally win a game on quizup, (only you were much better at quizzes). And especially on days when a mutual friend shares my poetry and I know you must have come across it too. I can only imagine what you would think.
 
It’s funny because it’s like having Alzheimer’s in reverse. It’s funny, because it’s summer now, but I know I’m not allowed to forget about last winter.

/there are so many things we could do/

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There are days
when we would go out
to the seashore behind
your first home,
as hazardous the road might be.
“Watch your step,” you would whisper
telling me where the bushes were sharp
and I would move my skinny body
lean against one of those large rocks
and stare for hours
at you, at the clear water running.
In the sea
shadowing everything inside it.
Like small fish and the rocks, that the sea
covers
every time it hits the shore.

It feels nice
to witness you every day
to stare at you like this
like the sea and the sand
changing, moving, shifting.

The sun touches my face gently,
like when you are desperate
teasing me, flirting. Kissing my face.
Look towards the sky
and see
the moon is jealous.

/there are so many things we could do/

Justification.

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I can categorically list the number of times you have been misused, unheard and trivialized. And as much as I might write about you, you are not a metaphorical representation of the moon or the sun, and my pen doesn’t help. You are real flesh and bones, and the real you craves for coffee on Sunday summer mornings and likes sitting alone sometimes. You too crave for sex, with people whom you have just met and you also forgot my birthday once. You are not perfect, of course, you are not perfect, but you are not a gross indecency either. You are truly and finally someone I can love and my love demands to be written down on the most beautiful sheets of paper I own. My love demands to be handwritten on postcards that I have collected over the years for this moment and sent over the distances. But you see my love is also a little selfish and narcissistic, and since we are not in a brilliant and beautiful relationship, you are just another story I can tell myself before going to bed. One of those stories that demand to be told again and again.

Artwork by Manjit Thapp.