Lessons in burning
I’m boiling our memories
In “slow burn” mode
And the weight of your fat self -consciousness
is lingering over the tip of your pigeon-like toes
(Did I tell you that your toes look like pigeons?)
I look at them, not your toes – the memories
As they gently boil and melt
I think of our dark secrets
and the evidence of a midlife giddiness
that we have left on each other’s teeth
That
Any sane soul would have admitted
We weaved each other in such a
Sticky loop of love
So uncommon
Like we were swallowed by very low dose of LSD
And words and similarities
Which made us feel – “life holds satisfaction beyond just survival” – and
empathize with mumblecore moments
Of yours and mine.
Our names. Those names.
“Fucklet”, “GKC”, “CMM”.
Lists.
Categories.
Questions.
3AM murmuring consultations.
Your manicured insular veins
Chocking up my arteries.
Lifeless. Cold.
Your eyes.
Clearly cut between
Black. And White.
Like Mary.
I realized that my Mary never weeps.
She only stares at me
And mocks at me.
Especially when I tell her that I have names for all your craters.
Each and every one of them.
In the library of experiences
You remain. In pieces.
Like stains
As fresh as oil paint. That refuses to fade even if I boil it. Or water it down.
Burning
Like paint on an open wound
Blood – having this sensitive absorption of
artistic points of ardour
in a clueless life.
I’m perambulating
In the past
Jotting down lessons in burning
When will you join
me?