a tale as old as time.






love is premeditated

first, by history

for years lovers have sat 

in the pristineness of the grief following a fight

and imagined. 

the heart drags to the feet with a painful force

the mouths curl into cruel words

but limbs and heart are locked in passionate disbelief;

now does his mouth have a distaste for me? 

it seems impossible yet he could be

spewing arguments of hate for me too.

trapped by contradictions, lovers quarrel eternally

each convinced by their historically exceptional agony. 

imprints of their dissent are now 

feathers of fables falling at leisure. 

i say pitiful phrases to myself when we fight, and then it befalls me

love is premeditated

by me too. 

always slightly hopeful that a voice will respond,

i expect whispers of dejection to be sliced. 

but response comes in a weep 

so heavy it fills my lungs with emptiness 

i can only imagine is borrowed, from tired nights of the past.

a cloud of tears around my ears

dripping through my hair

you drenched me in despondence when you didn’t look at me.

i cannot compute your anger, 

because i was quietly screaming:

we are not lost

we have become the nodes within the tree of love 

from the moment we kissed. 

then i fell to shame:

it is a disgrace we are bejewelled with anchors, 

unimaginable without burdens. 

damage was a carrier of fate 

the day of the gay parade 

but i was the mediator, the announcer and orator of the affair 

about to begin. 

the blame once flickered around my eyes

now it blinks with me. 

our love was created like a careless child. 

sweet whispers in the dark

quickly became negotiations with the heart.

reduced to the archetype, i am now pressed 

worrying of my image

crumpling like cheap paper, sliding off the desk of your mind. 

i already sense the corner of the drawer 

where you will stash my slip with the broken strap 

that no longer smells of me. 

my skin is oblivious to certain contacts, 

such as flame,

this is why you must know 

it is not enough to put out rage with a rag 

fires spread discreetly when the body is cold

and you cannot quell it 

when you smile tomorrow. 

i am as forgetful as skin— a tissue meant to expose, 

covered, 

                     shedding, 

same as time, lovers’ fabric of choice.

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