A lifetime down the line you and I will meet, at the ice cream shop round the corner, at the end of this busy street. I'll scrunch my nose at your black currant and at my vanilla, you'll cock an eyebrow. With amused eyes you'll say, "Choco chips don't hurt, you know." I'll tell you that I hate chocolates for they're too sugary for my taste, like pretty smiles and men's lies and vows made in wine and haste. You'll call me a corny cliché like those wishes made upon a dying star, I'll tell you, maybe it's a good thing then, they can be admired only from afar.
A lifetime down the line, we'll watch a sunset together. Distances and hours apart, yet living in it, a forever. With wrinkles wrapped in greys, you will take a stroll down the street, And at an ice cream parlor round the corner, A corny cliché you'll greet. Faded and quite hazy, yet living on in your memory. And you'll smile at how it lingered without reminders and galleries. With a distant look in your eyes, You'll order vanillas, two. And on being asked if you'd like some choco chips, With a smile on your face you'll say, "no".
His very adamant sweet tooth would always end up binging on cheesecake on every date we had, and then make him stay up all night due to sugar rush. On those nights, he would call me, mostly around 2:00 am, shamelessly tell me that he misses me already, and then spend the rest of the night talking about avengers.
He had this very strange habit where he would buy synthetic roses, spray them with his cologne and gift them to me saying that then I would have his scent with me even after he's gone. And before I'd have the chance to frown at the sheer insensitivity of the gift or tell him that I hate roses, he would pull me closer to him and shut me up with a fragrant kiss.
He was always drawn to the ocean. Said he related to the waves. And if I ever asked me how, he would offer me a side lobed smile and say, "We're both unafraid of perishing." The beach made him write poetries, but everytime I'd ask him to recite me one, he would simply shrug saying poetries are nothing but exaggerated lies. And poets, the most beautiful liars.
He was true to his words though. For one night, he walked away. Like all good things do. Like a gust of wind, that brushes past you leaving behind nothing but a feeling. Often, a cold one. He left with no goodbyes for he always hated them. No letters for me to read over a cup of hot chocolate. No explanations, no reasons and no T-shirts to cuddle me to sleep.
All he left behind were a few songs in his voice that still comfort me amidst the afternoon mayhem and a few plastic roses that smell like him, especially at a lonely 2:00 am.
I write a sunset in my mind, as the sun slowly undresses the sky, layer by layer. she's no longer white, no longer blue, she's a burning orange, a shy pink. She makes love with the fingers of a widow.
But I've written this before. In another life. In another body. Somebody has. This borrowed language gnaws away at me. I lie in a bed of words born in another's throat, moulded with another's fingers. The linguists of the past deny me the ego of a creator. But then again, what is truly mine. Proprietorship is merely a coin rolling down a vending machine.
I have my back to the metaphors of every dead poet who sat on this bench. Glory is forgotten, names are forgotten, words are forgotten too. The clouds hover in a voiceless mourning, a veil for the widowed sky. They remain a ghostly white even in the darkness.
When spring came, the tulips bloomed. And so did our love. The jasmines danced aromatizing the earth. And I discovered your love for darkness when I found you admiring the starless nights.
You said the mirth will succumb to the scorching heat when summer bares it's crown. But that's the thing about darkness. It grows darker. It is permanent. And permanence nowadays, is something worth falling for.
And when autumn arrived... I found myself fretting over the emptiness creeping between us slowly. But you turned to the falling leaves, and told me that some falls happen to make the world more beautiful.
But now I halt. For you're gone and I'm scared. For it's close. For it's here. With a question that remains unuttered, Will I still be in love? Will I survive the winter?