dear rafa,
it's been a million seconds
since a million seconds towards love
and the numen of that love
seems to have called it a day,
and yet
the nudiustertian nature of it
only further seems to cement
the sempiternal nature of it
even though the masochist in you
has now turned into a gaberlunzie,
and my menstrual rivers
have now lost their power
to rejuvenate me and wake me up
from a failed dawn:
...
you should know that
your lycanthropy has always charmed me
ever since we had started our half hour chats
on the steps of our english tuitions,
and it is not so much the wolf in question
but your shivering hands when you held mine
revealing signs of an inner preta
that ensorcelled me
and made me want to play caretaker;
and now, the frittle of your kiss
at the doorsteps of Ramakrishna Mission
has turned into a scar
and refuses to leave my cheeks,
and that is how i know
that you've left behind
an empty soliloquy in me:
...
i wish that you write to me once
for, my metaphors for your memories
do no justice to the angst of my womb:
sincerely,
your Anu
....
6 months and 66 days later...
....
dear rafa,
you still haven't written
and yet my desire to berate you for it
gets consumed by the
aurora borealis of your love
that you had once immersed me in,
and every time my fancies of becoming
your personal ecdysiast
make me a little more wet,
i have to go read one of your poems
which, just so you know,
seem to borderline braggadocio
in their use of the written word,
so much so that
your sesquipedalian catachresis
takes a total of six reads
just to get applause:
...
you should know that
the hands you now hold
are those of my bench mate’s
and i think it's fucked up
that you'd pick her over me
after all that we've come to grow into;
you see,
i'm just like you in a way,
i too have had a chained childhood
locked away in the clutches of rules
only to further give into expectations
under the weight of being the elder one
in the family;
i too have lost count of the steps
i've had to take to walk away from
the pretty but expensive skirts
i was attracted to;
i can relate to what you say in your poems
about being able to be loved
only by those who've known darkness,
so, when i have an unfaithful day,
i look for solace in one of your pieces
even though i wish i could throw at you
the added dictionary i have to have
while drifting away into them:
...
you've got to come back to me
so that i can show you
my panacea for your wounds
in the warmth of my bosom
and the isthmus that i have
for the erect nuance of your lust
and the philtre of your baloney pony;
and nothing will ever take you
away from me:
i hope you write to me:
sincerely,
your Anu
....
10 months and 10 days later...
....
dear mr. "i'm too good
to remember her anymore",
you've now given new meaning to
lackadaisical oblivion of love,
and this will be the last letter
i ever send your ass:
it's too bad that
our pridian years have become
a fucking blur to you,
and the aestival nature of your charm
has turned into a frozen stop-sign pole
in the middle of hiemalsmaze,
only to rust away into uselessness:
i'm putting my heart away
into Davy Jones's locker
and throwing the key away,
i'm slitting my own wrists
to stop the ichor of my love
as a final symbol of my ache for you;
but, before i do that,
i curse you
that you become unlovable,
that love never touches you,
that you feel the wrath of abandonment,
that your words cause you emptiness,
that kakorrhaphiophobia eats away your soul,
that you starve for redamancy,
that your sleep becomes your scream,
and that you suffocate your own dreams:
...
and now,
the blood has started to pour out
my wonderful one,
and the mirror has started to become hazy
my wonderful one,
and so,
here's me embracing your silence:
lots of love,
your Anu
....
7 years and 7 days later...
....
dear anu,
periphrasis has always been my thing
but i don't think it can save me
from the pathos i feel
while i pick up your ashes;
i'm afraid
your curse has taken its effect on me
and hermitage has become my sobriquet
and saudade has become the theme
of my sleeplessness;
ofcourse,
there's no way to gloze
the cavalier nature of my value for you,
and there's no way to make amends
for, you're on the other side of the river,
and i only wish i have what you had to get there:
...
time has no ebb
no matter the brobdingnagia
in my prayers,
and there's no way to undo
the erratic left by the
glaciers of constellated memories,
yet, i offer you
humble pleas of clemency,
for,
today i know of the shenanigans
of unreturned love,
and today i know of the ladybug
that never got its way;
and i also live today
in the shadow of your curse
where all seasons appear the same,
only to let you know that
i may pretty soon join you
in the midst of your valleys
where the abundance in your love
would finally bring me peace:
...
no apologies for you
but when i did,
i did care for you:
sincerely,
your Rafa