Park Street
The darkness you have kept as your face
Is the pupil of your conscience,
It is dilated in alarm.
What are you trying to grope?
Why are you trying to grope?
All the sheets, seats and streets
That have our names stamped and buried
Under that of millions of others,
Must be feeling betrayed by now
Or
Relieved that we did not put our heavy-heart-ed bodies
On them again.
Phew!
So why am I feeling bad for the raindrops
Which fought with the sweat of our love-making?
Why am I feeling bad for the mirror
Which reflected our mismatched hearts and mismatched bodies
As if they would have ruled the world together one day?
Why am I feeling bad for the paper cup
Which let me taste you and you, me for the first time?
I am not really.
It is just that I like to fall in love.
I love the smell of sadness in every parting memory
I love the taste of every drop of blood from betrayal
I love the touch of ashes peeling and floating into oblivion
From my parched heart.
Give me a fool,
I will love him.
But I can never love who loves a fool.
~ Entry for Nostalgia Contest~
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