Broken Memoirs – Part Three
The day you left Maitrey,
your suitcase on the bottom most step
and the tears in your eyes shook away my toxicities
and crashed my sanity to pieces.
It doesn’t surprise me how weak my spirits have become,
how your absence eats me whole every minute,
how loving you doesn’t seem as futile as it really is.
The day you left,
the nothingness pounced onto me
and built a home on your memories:
brick by brick, cell by cell;
like a monument of sole remembrance
I don’t take the cigarette in between my lips
nor my heavy sighs;
not even the memories of the promises
that we made to each other,
like all young lovers
with hearts like roses without thorns.
I walk out in my old denim jeans
and the black diary in my jacket
whose pages have known for their entire lifetimes
how it was
to love you.
My feet take me back to our old chowk
where we would drink our evening elaychi tea,
watching each other from the distance of our silences;
all of it, lost
somewhere in between the weak radio songs that you loved
and the ringing of the passing pastoral rickshaws
with people from strange cities and strange lives.
You would wonder who they were.
You would tell me their stories.
You would tell me what made them different
Your gaze would screw holes into my chest.
A few ribs would be broken too
whose splintered ends would cut through my lungs
and choke me just enough
to terrify me with thoughts
of ends and separations.
But how much more can you destroy a pounded city?
So let me remember you, my love
and our evenings of young, trembling fascination.
Let me go back to our chowk once again
and listen to the radio
while I drink our memories in gulps.
Let me sit down under the starry sky
on the field where we danced to the silence
and made love in eternal bliss.
Because you are not just a woman, Maitrey
and I am not just your lover.
We are the chronicles.
We are the meanings in the world,
the ferocity, the coarseness, the ageless wrath.
We are the words that fill up stories
and the sadness that crowns us beautiful.
We both live
now in separate houses
in separate cities
in separate stories,
with my white flaccid heart
and a tired ink smeared lip
write this for you today to remind myself
one more time, of how it was
to lose all worldly consciousness
and knowledge of myself.
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