I've been meaning to write a poem mourning your loss, mourning the heady start that we'd got, mourning everything that would help to purge you off me. I wonder if catharsis is in the process or in the moment that would eventually negotiate my cure.
I've been meaning to ask you about your knives-- the ones you say were reared never to draw blood. Wonder-struck, I asked you, would you still call them knives? If they won't cut and tear what else could they possibly evince? You took offence. You tried to demonstrate. Each time they only surprised you more and more. Exhausted, you said, I was only thinking about their kinder sides.
I've also been meaning to tell you that I've lost my journal to computer viruses. Gone is your name; your idiosyncrasies-- that I'd so diligently noted; particular dates when you might have said something particular; little nuggets of personal history when we'd talked late into the night; little poems of odd lines that never really grew beyond a certain number of words, everything that could put you at risk is gone-- you must marvel at the beauty of fate.
Soon it would be close to an year of knowing you and un-knowing you. You've only asked me to move on and likewise denied me the opportunity to mourn the loss of love.
Now Playing:: Arziyan.......Delhi 6