Falling in love is as pleasant as breathing but getting out of it, or staring at the demise of it, is like breathing underwater. You fear this, of course, we all fear this. So, the quicker you know about the drought to come the less painful it will be . . .
some day
traffic might clutch
my taxi
rushing out
in the middle of the road
I’ll make a run
for a kilometer or two
but still
might miss the last local
your mid-noon call
just to blab
‘show your face early today’
an eager tone
followed by a sneeze
fifteen minutes prior
I might have had honour
of a personal meeting
with boss
where I begged for
today’s extra hours
just to undo yesterday’s mess—
at least he thinks it’s a mess
‘and do bring cold medicines’
you might slam the phone
tired
waiting for my response
I might recite it all
while trudging through
three train stations
slow but beyond the grip
of traffic
and with certainty
to see you before
the sun
years might pass before
you open the door
with a rattle
you might rummage
through my pockets
without a word
and suddenly
we both might realise—
I forgot your meds
I’ll make a strong coffee
and look for some
painkillers in cupboard
that’s all I can
do for you
now
there in bedroom
you might be half-asleep
trembling
wavy hair all over the eyes
soaking wet
putting the coffee aside
I might cuddle you
(while) shaking
you might spout that
it’s a special occasionary day
one I failed to reckon
with the date
after all this
suppose
I didn’t sneeze
first thing in the morning
you could say—
we are not lovers anymore
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