We seem not to remember how
to love. When did we forget?
My poetry has become like a
tomb where rhythm no longer chymes. My nostrils have made a home for the
rotting scent of the flowers you no longer pick for me.
We could go back to that
moment when the rain started beating us. Retrace our steps to the last time
love was bliss. Maybe then we would find the right path this time. Maybe then
we'd avoid hurting each other.
But can the cracks be mend?
Can we turn back time by winding up the clock? It seems to be all futile now.
Every effort we make, we seem to blunder. Like we no longer know how to set the
ignition. Like that spark that lit our path has long been extinguished.
It makes my heart mourn. And
I wonder how you feel about it all. Does your heart twist as well? Does all
this take away your energy for life too?
I don't want to blame you. To
say that you destroyed what we had build all these years. Because it is past
the time for pointing fingers. Because now every time we point a finger, it is
those which remain pointing at us that we must glare at.
I want to feel sunlight
again. I yearn to laugh again. I yearn to writhe in pleasure under the body of
the one I love. But it seems that the best of us now lies only in the piles of
our memories. Beneath all the hurt and tears that accompany us now.
Hold my hand again when there
is no audience to watch. Then we can recover the colours we initially admired
in each other. Then the moon will remember to glow through the double-curtained
window while you trace your finger along my skin. Then our hearts will remember
to beat to the rhythmic desires beyond our loins.
And I will have no more use
for a practiced smile.
