Lessons in burning

m7

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?

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~ by rb on June 4, 2013.

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