An Existence On Loan
An Existence On Loan
Sometimes
When the winter wind blows
And disturbs the silence
Around me,
And the apple strawberry fragrance
Of the potpourri by the bed
Diffuses through the room,
I wonder what it would be like
To own this silence.
To not have it on loan
From your absence.
To do with it what I want to,
Without you.
What an idea!
A notion so radical and
Unrealistic
That this paper shivers
Under my touch.
Sometimes
I want to own this silence
That has not belonged to me
For years and years.
Sometimes
I detest wiping
All the rings of water
On my tables,
Each spot where you put
Down a glass without a coaster.
You know how I hate those rings!
To have my tables
All to myself.
What an idea!
To have all my journals
Addressed to me
Instead of you.
To be the theme
In your stead
Of my own poems,
No variations either.
Sometimes
I want to wipe you clean
Like I wipe the tables everyday
With Windex and a paper towel.
If only I could do the same
To these years and years
Wasted in vain
For childish aspirations.
To all the days
So stubborn under my touch
Like soap scum
Around the faucet,
Rust on the ring
That lies dead in its case.
I am surrounded by death.
Flowers, pictures, feelings.
All dead and cold.
Sometimes
I wish I could blow away
With this winter wind
That breaks my borrowed silence.
Sometimes
I wish I could die a little, too,
Just enough to be rid of you.
Ufff, amazing! There’s so much intensity and desolation in this poem, especially towards the end. This poem resonated with me like a knell. 10/10, no less.
As always, rite on the dot. I agree with Hassy, 10/10…
Wow…loved how you brought it all together to wrap things up at the end. Had this Parveen Shakir flair to it.
As always, mind blowing ending! I love how u take the smallest, tinniest details of life, like the water rings on the table and make them seem so significant!
thank you so much, all of you. you guys are really putting me on a pedestal here. i don’t think i deserve all this praise, but thank you for your appreciation.
These poems seem to be written as if the writer has gone through all this personally. If you write this based just on observation then your sense of empathy is remarkable – It is the mark of a true poet and a writer.
simply beautiful.