Yesterday, I ran through a park, high-fiving strangers
in costume. We reassured each other that people
who stared were jealous. We enjoyed each other.
But tonight, the midnight pianist who lives upstairs is silent,
and my roommate has been asleep for hours. Even the mice
have tired of their games. I would put myself to bed,
promise these words their turn tomorrow, but ever since
my friend’s sickness swallowed her speech, I cannot think
in future tense. I cannot speak, except like this.
Do you remember the first slipper the sea sucked
off an unsuspecting beach – the blue disappearance?
Do you remember how secure the sand felt before?
Do you remember shoulders unhindered
by favorite ghosts, twilights when eyelids sealed
without glue? Do you remember waking up
in untrembling rooms, those sure steps we took? Remember
when the clock’s swollen hands pushed time forward? Before
the ice in our chests, the goldfish that swam there?
(published in Muse India, Issue 42, March-April 2012)
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