Love. I shall never speak of love again
while there is still a pile of dirty clothes
waiting to be saved by the washing machine,
while the floor reeks of dusts, and dried pieces
of food waiting for the broom and the mop
to clean them up. For all I know love
could be waking up every morning
to wash the dishes from last night’s dinner
and then cooking breakfast for my father
after two hours of sleep.
I will never be sure until I’ve exacted
the salt in his sunny side up.
He sometimes prefer raw egg
on warm rice with a hint of disgust
for the fish stew that is sourly exaggerated.
Love, love can never be more than sleeping 8 hours,
nowadays. When ‘she’ is there, imagined or actually there,
because warmth mean different thoughts in two cold skins.
Truth is, I forgot what love is.
I forgot who I was and who you were.
I don’t want to remember.
I forgot who you were.
I considered you dead.
You were ghost born out of longing
that already left and will never come back,
but at last, I shall no longer be hunted.
You crossed towards the lights,
when I realized and decided
that you already did.
My father is a widow. And I must be the son
who keeps him well. Love is when I folded
my dreams to write poetry and packed them
in a bag labeled ‘Home’, along with books,
an old pen, a broken laptop,
and took them all home to take care
of my old man. But I shall never speak
of love again because I used to spell it
with your name. Love is an old term
for feeling your hair on my fingers,
I brushed believing that time
is a generous bastard
and distance is a faithful friend.
I can no longer trace the lines
in my palm to write new things.
You’re already dead.
To hell with you and the lips
where dreams used to flow from.
To hell with the breast from which I suckle
creativity and the next lines to writh poetry from.
Drag the person who I was
when you were yet the story I always wrote,
with you. Let us stop here, I might
recite again the songs
I wrote on the walls of your thighs.
I am a good son, I know I could be
good at anything but never in being yours.
I am a good uncle to my nephews.
I figured you will never be their good in-law.
I realized that I could trade
our two years for a 10-minute chase
with plastic swords and skateboards
and laughter induced bath times with Czar and Seth.
It was all good until you went on an honesty galore
in scarce text messages and calls:
“I love you. I met this guy.”
“I love you. We spent time with each other a lot.”
“I love you. I slept with him last night.”
“I love you. His mother is not sick.”
“I still love you. His problems are lighter than yours.”
“I think I still love you. He’s not complicated”
“I think I still love Oh My God! He’s here.”
Nostalgia, will never be a word
until I’ve finished the grocery list
and paid the bills.
Nostalgia, I only go out ocassionally
so as not to be said as already dead.
Nostalgia, I am now indifferent to it.
Oh! If I go on you will be an epic.