Remembering.

I
"First love is only
A little foolishness
And a lot of curiosity."
G.B. Shaw

II
I can't seem to write about
How the setting sun also sets aflame
The hapless cirrus clouds, 
And a sinking heart.
Or, how the fireflies manage to hold themselves steady
In the cold shower of the moonlight.
Fortunately, two people, together,
Are much more than tired aphorisms.
But I can remember the scent of a touch.
Clear as the mountain air.
I can remember a voice.
"Can I come over to Bombay?"
I can't, though, remember the response.
Eight years
Is not the ideal time in a relationship
To try and lend some meaning to it.
Unfortunately, some things can only live as long.

III
A song bird flew past me.
Struggling with dispassion,
I sit brooding, with a cup of tea,
Trying to figure out the spectrum
Of emotions that accompany
The setting sun.
The flutter of its wings catches my attention.
Tiny as it was, the gust of air
The followed its flight
Startles me into an awakening.
I can almost sense a patient gaze
As it sings a tune all too familiar.
A swarm of memories
That had laid siege on my mind
For what felt as long
As the siege of Troy for Helen,
Finds a way past,
And invades an unsuspecting heart.
January 2015. “Bye bye, black bird.”

IV
When I started my day,
it was with a whiff of agitation
in an overbearing gust
of mistrust.
The hours spent at my desk,
Poring through emails that were more impersonal 
Than a pizza delivered for a living,
Slipped by,
Desperately,
Trying to catch my eye.
I was not looking for love,
But for the slightest of signs
That portended apathy.
That I failed is of little consequence.
Somewhere in those signatures,
I saw “Love, always.”
In the end
There is always something
For everyone to savour.