Of long ago

I had once loved a man, he had deep dimples on his cheeks and jade black eyes. I had left semicircles of teethmarks on his honey-colored shoulders. I had loved him without knowing how or why. I had loved him, simply. I had loved him in evenings on rocks where mosquitoes buzzed and landed on collarbones. I had seen him mad. I had seem him happy. He had seen me crazy. He had seem me happy. I had loved him in a different language than his or mine. My thoughts in Bengali, I couldn't express in Malayalam, his thoughts he couldn't in Bengali.

I lost him in the crossroads of life. But if I could return, I would return. I would sit on his lap and tell him stories. Tell him of the awesome things that would happen to us. Tell him that he was lovely, and a bit crazy, and that was okay, because it was better to be a madman than a walking corpse with Rolex watches, calendars, and brunch-plans.

I would. I would say that I'd miss him when he had stopped missing me, I would remember his smile when mine had just faded from his imagination.

#

Love,
I know we are sad and we will be sad. It is a sadness that comes from a place that is too dark to mend.  It is a sadness that comes from the realization that things are ever rarely perfect.

My poetry strain to rhyme usually, and rarely do any of my characters feel real onstage.

I can understand when you stare for hours at your painting of poppies and feel glum about the yellows being not quite right. Just like you understand when I work on a comma in a verse, and stare at it for hours, and take it out and put it back and take it out and put it back.

We will never be happy with each other. Because we will never be happy on our own. Because we try to reach to the depths of our beings to bring thoughts out to our verses and canvases, and that is insane.