2015

Your story is written

by an unseen hand

in a long-winded sentence,

which doesn’t really say much.

Year-ends come

like commas, marking

a pause, to allow

you to catch your breath;

But then some

are like semicolons:

you know

it might as well have ended

here;

but it didn’t;

it won’t;

it

just

won’t...

~ aviD

Naivete

For an irrational moment
I had thought our fates
have been sealed,
among that multitude
of books, some as old
as civilisation, and some
new as your youth.

A quiver of thrill ran
through me as I introduced
Odyssey to you.
Even Homer would have seen
the affection that glazed
my eyes as they darted
from the book to your face.

“Iliad too must be about!”
I’d said looking away impulsively,
eager to conceal that very affection.
Would I sail the Aegean sea
to reach you? Would I launch a thousand
ships to have you?

No! But I was willing to share
my books with you. And my food.
And, believe you me,
that’s a bigger endeavour on my part
than the ones epics exalt.
All the while we walked
those semi-lit alleys
of Connaught Place,
I’d secretly hoped that you’d
place your hand around my waist,
or plant a kiss on my cheek.
All the while we talked
in the frail chill
of an early December evening
I’d secretly hoped that you’d
tell me one thing that you like
in me.

When I dared to probe your feelings
you said that you’ve been
meeting other people, and that
you treat all of us equally.

Never had egalitarianism
sounded as ridiculous and offensive
to me before.
What was I to put it down to?
Your naiveté or mine?
Yours could still be extenuated by
your age. But mine should only be
damned.

~ aviD