Poetry

Think of me as a lover
Who makes you weep.

Who takes your hand
And gives you breath.

Think of me as the tormentor
You long for on cold nights
Turning colder.

As the figure who says adieu
And wants letters and warms kisses too

I am your dream
Your disappointment
Your anguish

Your confession
Your noise
Your bereavement

The stranger you couldn't meet
The Narcissus you always seek

The Narcissist you always were
The lover you couldn't be.

The Writer's Block
Must be like a constipated soul
Or is it more serious?
The analogy of a blocked valve?
The desire to stop your heart
And fix it
Or perhaps just have its services
'Temporarily Suspended'?
The desire to vent a stir in the
Soul's deepest chambers
And not having enough
Tears?
No music No memories
No sighs No motions
No dance No rays
No moon
Anywhere

No voice
At all
But simply a dry howl
That ends too soon
While wailing
On empty nights

What do you
Where do you go
How do you burst again
Upon the world?

No doctor
No lover
No mother
Knows

Only you
Who knew yourself too well,
Loved yourself too often,
Wrote yourself too much.

Forgetting

The fear of many things
Of having forgotten alphabets
And names of dear ones

Treading back
Home
Towards its
Unnameable smell
And then, forgetting home

Forgetting to love
And kiss
To cry and pacify

Forgetting your
Smile and good deeds

Turning you into
Memory

And then,

Remembering.