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days have started to die late.
the dusk grieves along the
skyline in wails of red, soaked
by the uncaring monotony
of this city. i already miss
the early stars blushing in
masks of fog; the cold tremor
of leaves; and the winter breeze
that cracked my lips and flaked my scalp.
the dusk grieves along the
skyline in wails of red, soaked
by the uncaring monotony
of this city. i already miss
the early stars blushing in
masks of fog; the cold tremor
of leaves; and the winter breeze
that cracked my lips and flaked my scalp.
the onset of summer annoys me,
just as the unwarranted departure
of winter upsets my heart. did I
not love you enough? i wonder.
beaten blankets strung in empty
balconies flutter lightly
on nylon ropes: as if they were all
prepared to bid adieu;
to let go, and espouse the spring.
just as the unwarranted departure
of winter upsets my heart. did I
not love you enough? i wonder.
beaten blankets strung in empty
balconies flutter lightly
on nylon ropes: as if they were all
prepared to bid adieu;
to let go, and espouse the spring.
this frail January heat wounds
my memories, and i remember
the moisture between your fingers
on exhausted evenings: their soft
saline taste while you caressed
my face between your palms, like an
ocean wave lapping against my cheeks
as I napped tired on the shore.
my memories, and i remember
the moisture between your fingers
on exhausted evenings: their soft
saline taste while you caressed
my face between your palms, like an
ocean wave lapping against my cheeks
as I napped tired on the shore.
but i have come to hate summers
for that one sultry evening
you left in my study your goodbye.
a transformer had blown off
down the street, and the blackened
night had men huddling outside
their homes with torches in their hands,
and salted peanuts in paper cones.
i passed out in the dark
with your note on my perspiring chest,
crumpled by fingers in disbelief. and i
had woken up to a similar, defunct reality:
of people having moved on with life,
as if there were no disruptions,
as if they were always prepared,
as if they all slept sound the night before:
on lavish mattresses, and in the
supple skin of their wives.
for that one sultry evening
you left in my study your goodbye.
a transformer had blown off
down the street, and the blackened
night had men huddling outside
their homes with torches in their hands,
and salted peanuts in paper cones.
i passed out in the dark
with your note on my perspiring chest,
crumpled by fingers in disbelief. and i
had woken up to a similar, defunct reality:
of people having moved on with life,
as if there were no disruptions,
as if they were always prepared,
as if they all slept sound the night before:
on lavish mattresses, and in the
supple skin of their wives.
not grieving is no strength, but betrayal -
to the love you wove with pearls of tears,
and the puffing truth of your breathing.
being prepared for departures is no valor
but weak roots of love. i shall weep this
winter’s going, and be cold to the spring
flowers in my backyard. i shall loathe the
summer thereafter for the way it would
reignite her smell in my heart.
to the love you wove with pearls of tears,
and the puffing truth of your breathing.
being prepared for departures is no valor
but weak roots of love. i shall weep this
winter’s going, and be cold to the spring
flowers in my backyard. i shall loathe the
summer thereafter for the way it would
reignite her smell in my heart.
but then seasons return to our tired longings,
unlike loves that wash clear our imprints on
their bodies beneath tender touches of
juvenile passion. you see, goodbyes are not
meant for those who return. and those who
wouldn’t, never loved enough to pay for parting.
unlike loves that wash clear our imprints on
their bodies beneath tender touches of
juvenile passion. you see, goodbyes are not
meant for those who return. and those who
wouldn’t, never loved enough to pay for parting.
- sobhan
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