by Tina Das
I ask that the lights be switched off,
So that I can look at you in darkness,
And not be dazzled by the love
That you don’t feel for me.
I sigh and get back to where we started.
There is an unfamiliar smell
In clothes worn out of sheer necessity,
An abrasive touch to the bare skin
Securing a sensation unique,
To the one who owned them first.
At moments when you seem to clutch at shores,
Clinging to every scrap of hope thrown at you,
Someone asks if you would rather drown together,
And you let go-
Lose yourself in the unfamiliar smell,
Its more welcome than well coordinated attires.
How do you spell love?
How do you speak love?
Do you roll the word in your mouth
Like alcohol, savour like a connossieur
And whisper it out in your beloved’s ear?
Or, you fling it out like a ball of spit,
Not caring where it rests?
Or hold till passionate outburst is quietened,
And confess, you do.
We will probably get there, slowly,
Not like celebrated paintings,
Of messy hair and beautifully entangled limbs
But mild snoring, slightly open mouths
And eyes half rolled upwards,
Or we won’t.
How do you spell love, my love?
Maybe like this.
Image source: lh6.googleusercontent.com