Prem Sylvester |
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Counting
I should've heeded the signs when you brought measuring tape
to mark the distance you were sure would come between us.
You unfurled more of it each time we met, counting the days
till we would run out of closeness. I knew you weren't a romantic.
You raised both eyebrows at my optimism. I held on to hope,
shaped like a thin strip of yellow plastic. You smiled at my artlessness.
We're running out of tape. The last time I lay with you, I felt choked,
your delicate fingers clutching at our present. I didn't know how to move. You did.
At the terminal point, we talked of Cohen's hallelujah, inches
turning to miles. Drowning in air, I've never loved you more.
self portrait of a man reading on the train
who does the lonely one fool? pursuing the absent, the oxymoron. adamant gut leaking serotonin
into vacant seats. around me, the crush of feeling i cannot feel. i want to weep, but i fear my
nakedness. the penumbra of judgment cast by dead-sighted eyes. i am tired of wanting to be more.
more than tedium. more than moon-without-planet. the smell of jasmine wafts in, sickly sweet. the
odour of perfumed smiles. suffocating. i want to throw up. expel the emptiness, the white noise. i
don't see you anywhere anymore. disappearance has become such banality; it turns me to carapace
all the same. at least i have this book with me. clarity of the black box. no one to look in, no one to
look for me. a blanket of solitude. outside my window, it's a beautiful day to be alone.
I should've heeded the signs when you brought measuring tape
to mark the distance you were sure would come between us.
You unfurled more of it each time we met, counting the days
till we would run out of closeness. I knew you weren't a romantic.
You raised both eyebrows at my optimism. I held on to hope,
shaped like a thin strip of yellow plastic. You smiled at my artlessness.
We're running out of tape. The last time I lay with you, I felt choked,
your delicate fingers clutching at our present. I didn't know how to move. You did.
At the terminal point, we talked of Cohen's hallelujah, inches
turning to miles. Drowning in air, I've never loved you more.
self portrait of a man reading on the train
who does the lonely one fool? pursuing the absent, the oxymoron. adamant gut leaking serotonin
into vacant seats. around me, the crush of feeling i cannot feel. i want to weep, but i fear my
nakedness. the penumbra of judgment cast by dead-sighted eyes. i am tired of wanting to be more.
more than tedium. more than moon-without-planet. the smell of jasmine wafts in, sickly sweet. the
odour of perfumed smiles. suffocating. i want to throw up. expel the emptiness, the white noise. i
don't see you anywhere anymore. disappearance has become such banality; it turns me to carapace
all the same. at least i have this book with me. clarity of the black box. no one to look in, no one to
look for me. a blanket of solitude. outside my window, it's a beautiful day to be alone.
