somewhere between my last desperate attempt to reach you
and your last shrugging off an opportunity to reach out
i let you go. i set you free
and now, every now and then when you wander back
i don’t know what to do with you
it’s strange
i have let go
i never thought i could or would
but the fever has left me
atleast, in as much measure as it could
the passion is now a remembered master
and a phantom addiction
i have a vaguely sad memory of remembrance
like a echo of a shadow
but the memories even have faded
this is the other side of your who killed whom story
i have truly moved on
i am sorry and i console myself
only with the knowing that you couldn’t really care
given the last two years or so
there were so many opportunities
you didn’t take many and i missed more
but whats done is done
you cannot newly break a thread that
time has gnawed so bare
so even goodbye seems like empty words
but farewell
But with the fever, the poetry left. And the words dried up too. Apparenttly, Lisa was right – if not being, it bore a gift. But what is an annoying wicked mother in law who brings a box of home made fruit cake – however divine, right? better off without. Besides I like saving the calories. And think about diabetes
But I miss reading fiction, or poetry, or music. Or anything that makes me feel. Or old friends. Or personal conversations. Or gestures of random affection. I miss feelings – sometimes. Like a amputated limb, my limbic centres sometimes remind me that I dont feel, really anymore
Though that is a lie. I feel. Thirst. Exhaustion. Boredom. Unbearableness. Hunger. Laughter – pointless jokes – Outrage, sorrow at macro levels. Sometimes affection at the young and old and dogs. I laugh and play. And the other sorrows of Faiz
I dont even remember your face. Or how your skin felt. Or where exactly which mole was, how you hair … or the colour of your eyes. As I go about your day things you would have said or done had you been there play in the back of my head, or an occassional innocuous memory – but that is just the habit of almost a decade – and besides I am like that with all my memories – of every beloved friend and other family. But sometimes I have a dream. dont remember you at all. Not the constant moving. Not the passionate debate. Not childlike laughter. The boyish crying or even the constant twin-like resonance. Or the lies, the betrayals, the injuries
Most of the times, I feel fine: comfortably numb. And unconcerned.
Chocolate Amer 