Maps for Lost Lovers

Home,

was a series

of street corners

and intersections,

ordered, marked,

and known

in familiar ways;

that moved

in comforting rhythms –

an easy to read map

of people and places.

Until I met you.

You gave me

street-lit mementos

of a stolen night;

changing what my landmarks meant –

late night ice-cream indulgences,

tea-time musing by the beach,

dosa breakfast at the corner café –

as we exchanged stories

on tree-lined avenues;

and a lifetime of my memories

mingled with a lifetime of yours.

And I was left

with nothing

but a what-if?,

pregnant

with the past,

the present,

and the heavy weight

of possibility.

You took the contours

of my city,

and redrew them

using your own legend,

leaving me lost in a city

that was once,

familiar to me. 

Dolour

I am

The dregs in your tea cup;

Those old sole-less sneakers,

Worn in familiars ways

Forgotten

I am

The dust that settles

Around your memories;

The coffee cup stains

On the table;

The tinny silences

Of a phone

That doesn’t ring.

I am

Your loose change -

Forgotten in the cracks,

Amongst the cushions,

Beneath the bolsters

Of our love. 

Moving

She

hauled

two cartons, contents -

one hundred and sixty four books,

three posters, two paintings,

and one ceramic owl;

three suitcases of clothes,

a lifetime of jewellery;

one pressure cooker

(with two weights, just-in-case),

three pots, one pan and a spatula –

all non-stick, of course.

Up

four flights of demanding stairs,

(“it’s actually only three and a half”

the broker had promised).

Past the genial uncle with trembling keys,

and a door that wouldn’t cooperate

with his old hands;

around children,

who weave through her legs,

caught in a tense game of ‘cho-pohleec’.

Into

the two-bed-two-bath-hall-kitchen. 

Her laboured breath mingles with the heat

that radiates

from the walls, the floor, the ceiling.

The sunlight throws a mango tinted spotlight

on the dust

that dances in on the back of the hot summer breeze,

and she knows,

She is home.

Excess Baggage

“You’re a really nervous flyer!”

You exclaim.

Barely concealing amusement,

as you watch me

fiddle with my passport,

stare at my visa,

check my watch,

walk in circles,

practice my answers –

name, address, university.

“No way!” I say.

 Immediately defensive.

But then,

I realise

You’re watching,

But you’re not really seeing.

You’re not seeing

My navy passport

That puts me in a different line,

The guard that sits up sharper

As I walk towards him,

The mothers that reach for their children

As I roll past with a suitcase,

The extra time I schedule

For a “random search” and safety scan

Or for questions at Border Control.

You’re not seeing

The effort it takes to pronounce

All my vowels

And keep a smile on my face,

Pretending not to notice,

The girl across the aisle

Who wants a new seat,

Because I make her nervous. 

Long Distance

Please

Accept this picture –

Of these cupcakes I’m baking

This beer that I’m drinking,

Those geese in my courtyard –

In exchange for a hug,

 Or a smile stolen,

 Across a crowded room.

Wait,

For the house to go quiet

So that we can talk

Across five thousand and ninety four miles

 of silence.

Skype. Gtalk. Facebook Gmail.

I know your schedule –

And you know mine:

Secretaries

Of each other’s lives.

But we struggle

To make sense of our thoughts,

Feelings and aches

In each other’s absence.

I talk

To strangers in a bar.

You,

To strangers from your past.

“Seeing someone?”

They ask

We smile.

Goodnight. Good morning.

 Good morning. Good night.

Sin

My breath catches

As you unveil,

Inch by little inch –

Mint green, Gold,

Parchment thin

Silken skin

Falls away –

You crumple

And crease

At will.

I trace ridges, valleys, peaks –

Brown, proud

Waiting to be devoured.

Melting at my touch

Promises unfurl

Against my

Fingertips

Your taste lingers

Dark, bitter-sweet

Fetched from corners,

Peeled apart in layers

– pleasures

Hidden within you.

I sit back

Sated

And as I close my eyes

I can feel you

Deep in the warmth

Of my belly,

Against my skin

In the raw warmth

Of my mouth

Sin. 

Wanderlust

Let go of your maps

And walk with me

Down this road

Whose name I do not know,

And smile

At the laughter that pours out

Of glowing windows.

Stand still,

Here in the middle of the city square,

And watch as people

Go to and fro,

Giggle

At the puffs of smoke

That emerge

As you breathe –

You’re alive!

Take a train to a stop,

With an intriguing name

Talk

To the lady

On the seat next to yours.

Strain

To make sense

Of syllables

As garbled as your thoughts.

Smile

At a stranger

And duck into alleys

That look like

they belong in the movies.

Feel the cobblestones

Under your feet

Let

Wanderlust

Take you where

He may

Come with me,

As I explore this city –

And I will show you

What it means,

To be free