is what i sign my letters with.
it has always been easy to say love
to people i am at most acquainted;
the cashier of the grocery shop, the bank teller,
the editor of the magazine i submitted my poems to,
that UberEats delivery guy
who has memorized my address. the intern
i am in charge of, who will not get
the job offer in the end. the other day i told you
about the kitten that died in my arm when i was
twelve. it was a sad story; i was hopeless,
we were living on rent, penniless, and my mom
couldn’t afford a cat on top of her two children.
the kitten died from the rain. i told you sometimes
i was hopeless, still. and you said, ‘i love you.
please remember that i love you.’
aren’t we ambitious? look at us,
saying love as a countermeasure
to sadness, as if it will somehow uphold the sky, uproot
the bad memories. how dreadful an ambition it is
that we exchange it like postcards, a collection
of wax seals, and dried flowers, and absinthe,
and dead doves in paper bags.
i dream about it once, where i can stop saying love
as if i mean it. where we hang our coats
in the hallway entrance, walking in
bare feet, leaving our lies dripping like beads
from the lappets. the lights dim softly, mellow hues
a halo around our faces. we pour a glass of wine,
we turn on the music, and when it shatters
i don’t stretch my skin out like an overfilled balloon,
i don’t stop the tears seeping through the rips.
i dream about it, crying
instead of writing. let me wallow
in sadness. let me stop parading traumas
like they are performances. let me leave my coat
on the hanger in your hallway. let me leave my shoes
in the rain. i love you so much
that on the days i do not feel like loving,
please open the gate when i pull up
on your driveway, and stand with me on your doorstep.
we will hold hands, and witness the sky breaking
open, its shards collapsing like glass, at last.
*
*
Sun, 18/12/2022.
Ant.
Sesame Tofu 