I will write you another letter And drop it at your doorstep. A little brown envelope, The perfect shade of an old romance.
You will not be expecting it When you wake up that morning. You usual alarm will blare at it's usual time And your usual morning routine Will be everything you usually do. I am tempted to tell you That the sun won't hint at the day starting differently Nor will you brew your tea to the perfect flavor. You will walk to the door Keys and all Heading out for work Because as usual, you leave fifteen minutes earlier Than what Google maps tell you to.
So, you almost step on it. One foot in the door frame One foot hovering above it, When you notice my letter.
I write your name in an almost illegible scrawl. You see a few ink blots, dotted along the bottom right corners Of the envelope and you know I tried my best. You smile and run your fingers over your own name. That dot over the i, where I pressed too hard And the paper sunk a little too deep. Imagining me, giving up on the ink, And going back to the pencils.
And unlike your newspaper habits, of reading untidyly You hesitate to open the envelope. Afraid, that one wrong cut somewhere Might tear the inside And the fragile bits of our love Will spill into this real nothingness. Like the light of the day Will fade the hue and the chip away at the ink. And that won't be fair to the sepia, will it?
And, just like I predict in the begining of my letter You are sitting alone in your car With it's new car smell In the dull and the drab of a parking lot corner You finally exhale Open the envelope and sit down to read About us. All this while knowing That one fine day You'd wake up to my letter, Again.
The telephone rings And I waste no time In recognizing your soft voice Travel over a 1000 miles Via electronic lines over my head And under the sea. The silence is a good start To a conversation After exactly 4388 days And many a calendar on the bedroom wall Will testify The precision of that number. It's still the same baritone You recited your first poem to me in. Unsure We hear the same thoughts Run across our heads Via this worn out earpiece I clutch tightly in my hand Thinking of you. The calenders all come down now. You know You are coming home.
I wonder How whorish We all are. Haggling for a fair price Of a part of our flesh Every morning Right from that first sip of bitter coffee You instantly make From your Morphy Richards machine To the last sip of whiskey That lulls you into a sleep While the glass tips sideways in your hand And startles your cat with the dregs in it. No We look at the sky emptily. Hollow wishes And prayers our mothers taught us. Kneeling by the side of our crusty beds. We have stopped wondering in miracles. And we are all optimists Chanting Murphy's under our breath Walking up the stairs To an office with a view Sorting mail after mail. Marking And tagging And filing sheets of that butter colored office paper The stack of which oddly Is the only measure for a good night's sleep.
I stand under the moon In an oversized tee shirt From one of the guys Who I brought home along with me. The burning end Of my sweet Mexican cigarette Crackles In the dead silent of the night Scaring As if, that the fire Will take you down.
I think of everything wrong And everything right Looking out the window Watching a father Put his 3 year old daughter to sleep.
We have big windows here. That bring the sun in the morning And the sight at night.
And every drag of the cigarette Reminds me of you. How you first taught me To swallow the bitter And the pungent And then ease back into the chair Shift the cigarette in between the index and the thumb And ever so slightly Shut your eyes And let it go.
Everything That the heart holds onto The smoke drags it out from your lungs And mixes with the fog that falls over the trees.
The world wasn't simpler then. The world isn't simpler now. But With the cigarettes and sex I had you. You had me.
.There is something I'm trying to Fill. Classic 9 to 5 work routine Extended till 7 in the evening Followed By exactly three and one half Glasses of mojito Still on the farthest bar stool Closest to the speakers. I slur the lyrics To the earworm On my cab ride home. The driver helps me remind me That I almost forgot my jacket. I thank him profusely And parade my way up the Spiral stairwell To my house Fumbling for keys In the pocket of denim. I crash on the couch For exactly 38 minutes Because that's how long I feel entertained By the madness on my phone. There are meals ready to eat My favorite Arby's Mac and cheese And I pick the second packet from my shelf. Because why not. The microwave dings In 5 minutes 35 seconds. I like it a little crusty. I take my clothes off and lie under The fortress of blankets That keep my bed warm Eating a dinner So pathetic One shouldn't eat it. I read cheap fiction in bed. Books on neoclassicism that sound intelligent. Crosswords puzzles ripped apart From newspapers of the 90s. The only music is the ceiling fan And the dull flicker of the light in my room. And somewhere amidst that Ordinary night Morning arrives. I stop myself From hurling the alarm clock across the room. I wake up instead. Sitting in bed While the sun barely hits my face And warms my skin. Thinking anout Something that I'm trying to fill.
Nothing better Than Reading a Bukowski As the 154 on the clock Races towards 2am.
His wine And his radio Are my whiskey And songs Of a lost love Who now Sleeps In the arms of someone Prettier than me.
His wife screaming From the kitchen Is my cat purring In the corner The ungrateful bastard Wants to run around All for a dead rat As my present.
There is the Mahler's 9th That he writes about. And I am listening to The Doors I wish I could compare them both. But there is nothing sad about The Doors. And I haven't listened to any music By Mahler.
There is a phone ringing somewhere And he ignores it. Trying to get his words through onto the typewriter. And I sit under the stars Pretending to be a writer.
He hates the telephone. Loves a hit of scotch from the glove compartment of his car And curses at his IBM machine While typing away wildly on it. He talks about all the whores Who steal his beer cans And yell at him Everything he already knows.
I hate my computer. Love my whiskey, so much so I gulp it before the ice in there Gets a chance to water it down. I still hate my computer. As I type away wildly on it. But There are no men. You see I gave my heart to one And he ran away with it To a small town in South Alabama.
The sky is silver today. There is an eclipse Tonight. And I remember You staying up With me 600 miles away Watching the moon sneak under the shadows.
I am trying to find new words For your handsome.
You once said You wanted to read one of Neruda's verses On a starless night Sitting on an abandoned terrace of a building Somewhere in the middle of the city Wrapped in a blanket With me
Your picture Lies face side down Between the cover and the last page of my diary. Your smile Makes up for the bad light exposure. And I try really hard Not to open my diary backwards.
There are stories About you In my head. Brown shoes and blue pants And metro stations And workday lunches Spent talking about how I had a brainwave And how you sat on the edge of your ideas Not able to think anything. Narratives Starting with the fall of the light And ending in another Loop of starlight And moon shine. Battling insomnia And sleep With out weak arms.
And I remember Your verse The first time ever You sent me a raw uncut Recitation of your neatly put Poem. I smiled and smiled On my walk back home And replayed it fourteen and a half times Till my phone ran out of battery.
Afghan matchmakers Say The voice is more than Half of the love.
I don't remember anything Other than You humming our song In my ear. What night was that? One of summer's hottest The day was long And the shadows, longer. Something by The Beatles Played through the short night Followed by One of your other verses Mumbled incoherently In exact precision Followed You saying my name At 237 am in the morning In your sleep.
Saturday nights Are spent Sitting at store windows Enjoying a meal for one Watching people drive home From an extra day at work Tiny little smiles on their faces Navigating through traffic With their car seats warmed And the music soft.
The guy waiting on my table Smiles me one of his sweetest smiles. That's what I like about this city. People here Don't know what they want. But they go after something Like an aimless shot In the middle of an afternoon That hits some poor animal anyway.
We talk about how I used to wait tables At a Five Fries on Jay Street. While I eat my taco elegantly. Something I have learnt over time Here And I'm thinking of the Monday morning While scrolling mindlessly Through a list of matches All dating apps algorithms on my phone Thinks are perfect for me.
He says he has another table to take care of And refills my glass on extra sweet orange juice. There are families out there of Brat kids Throwing a tantrum For not getting their favorite candy. Moms busy looking at store fronts And dads pushing shopping carts. There's a balloon guy too. But nobody wants one. There's a queue at Krispy Kreme though. Something about warm donuts on a chilly 19 degree evening. Maybe I will have one too.
I am done. And there is still a napkin unused. And I walk out of the restaurant Looking at the moon looking down on me. There was an eclipse yesterday. I took my current read and stationed myself In the balcony Watching us shadow the moon. Cold and bare foot I walked on the marble floor Inching myself over the railing To see the moon Go dark.
Everything's incoherent all of a sudden. Even this. But you understand, don't you?