Ten years of decayed love
float in her eyes. She looks
at me like time were still.
Her shoulder blade like an
ivory sword cutting, hurting.
I tell her to take care, look
beautiful again, first love
of my life, my wife, mother
of my sons. We exchange
bitter words without passion.
I turn home a sad dreamless
man - she breathes reconciliation
dares not say we be together
again but her eyes do - she
knows I hear too. Maybe she
does nothing and I cue wrong.
We both wish for time to wrap
on itself, give us back a decade
I never fail to remind J that there is a time and place for everything. It is possibly the line she will remember me by when I am dead and gone given how frequently she hears it. Instead of having her breakfast she will break into a song and dance number from High School Musical well past eight on Monday morning. She will insist that I watch and applaud the performance instead of screaming at her to finish her milk and cereal. Her sense of occasion is seriously lacking but then so is mine. Consider for example, a person walks into the grocery store with the express purpose of buying detergent because they are fresh out of it and laundry is only half way done. However instead of heading straight for detergent, they wander over to the natural foods aisle and go berserk upon finding goat milk on sale for a dollar a gallon. They at once proceed to stock pile so they can turn it to huge quantities home-made feta cheese. That person would be me. It would not concern me in the least that I ha...
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SriPriya