We linger, in that evolving stage
Where you have gone past the first comfort zone
And you are as comfortable as
A koala on a eucalyptus tree.
Marriage was the cart, the bull came a little afterwards,
Unlike the more celebrated type in the 21st century.
Our solemn pledge to stay celibate
Making us immovable from a stance
That was both sponsoring love,
And refreshing a catholic tradition.
And the bull came true, the day we became man and woman
And oh boy, the bull could pull
The cart more than we had ever anticipated.
We were in Pamplona,
On most days, of our first year of marriage.
Flesh-relations were just letting the bull loose
And the cart stood as pledge, stamping love.
Letting the cart usher in the bull,
Was just our way of acknowledging
That we knew each other implicitly
Before making the explicit count.
And the beast of beasts,
Used love – the raging type – to preserve the cart,
As the beauty of all modern beauties.
The possession you’re not
And yet an appraisal, of worth beyond measurement,
And in that dimensionless horizon
You sit, holding a flag of my name,
A memento of, not just, how we became
Bed currents of primal savageness
But also, of our promise to keep our bodies,
In humidity-gathering anticipation,
When we started out 18 months before,
As little pits that needed filling, and look how
We ended up as each others oceans.
My love, just gaze at how we learned, that dyslexia, is just
A brief interlude of error-proneness, that with time, atones,
To the sublime honesty, of how to transcend,
One’s nagging fears, to be,
A little careless in our tongue tactics,
A little clever in geometries,
And outright foolish in how you grin,
At everything, that you do to her, and she to you,
And what else but shame, not to disapprove,
Anything and everything, while
Leaving nothing to the imagination.
I burrowed underneath the bed sheet,
To the warmness of what it is like,
To push downwards, some warm air,
The days this used to be a furnace
Gone, just like the sultry summer,
And the memory of you and me,
Careless with our tongues and lips,
Like a wriggly sea creature coming
Out of a cave to catch the colorful prey.
We were at that point, mere man and woman
And what we made, could have
Been far from prosaic, like a diction
Of strange sounds and heavy breathing
That underscored how to let momentum
Guide us, pause hold us, morphing
In and out of combined figures, who swallowed
The remnant light, and made it into a silhouette.
We were nothing more than foolish
As an unarmed prey and yet tragically
Moving in and out of geometric formations, degrees
Of leniency that were both filling and emptying.
And we, like two porcelain crabs, holding the muscle
Of our claws, on each other,
And yet, letting the ocean, that breathes
In and out of us, slowly break us.
We are filling out time
As we become space-degreed,
A pressed navigation button
Taking you from lesser to greater,
When you finally look,
At your beautiful convenient apartment
In the middle of Colombo,
When you start to realize, that in climbing the slope
That determines success or failure,
You’ve become a success, to millions of eyes that gaze
At you with awe and still you see the
Word “failure” written on
Your half-complete autobiography
Which like a mirror, surfaces
Dark circles around your supposed halo
And the truth is, like a feeble bone,
That will break into two, to the tiniest thrush
Of your mental forces. You are only
An imposter to most people,
A happy-monger, whose heart is just
A scrapyard of used fittings.
Which were at one point long ago,
Your most-primal interfaces.
The long day, just got longer,
The chin too narrowed,
And claimed a little more of the curved edge.
This was after my trip into nostalgia,
Stopped somewhere in the mid afternoon.
There is nothing one can do
When nostalgia abruptly comes to a stand-still.
Nostalgia is not always
A tear-dropping handkerchief-wetting
Moment of careless pedigree,
No, sometimes, you are staring at the fog
Of light, we call the sun, taking notes of happenings
Around you. Still a foot, an eye or a rib
In the past is not always a bad thing.
Looking back, is solving those mysteries
Of the heart, which are just like,
Smarties or jellybeans, coming
Color-coded. The darkest being
The most ominous. And still we open
A pack, listening to Jon Secada
Singing “Just another day”,
But it rarely is. Its like unfolding
A pancake to find what the filler
Is – savory or sweet. And in that flat epiphany
You will start to believe that
All this bother, to recollect,
Is just an age-stamped edition
Of groping in retrospection.
And in that lesson of torment,
You haunt yourself with the past you,
And all you do at the end, is chase ghosts
Of the pasts, just to give you an
Extra zap, like a heart-quenching
A pure accident of the kismet kind
What else but lovers, embracing the two-fold blind
The bottom-big Barbie, like a true diamond called Kimberly
Was really a Sri Lankan lass, who moaned like a banshee.
They made pillows out of their generous suntan
In rituals of percussion, as buxom woman and wiry man
Making love was an euphemism, hyphenated by a short line,
A portmanteau in its most primal, like the tidal brine
Lovers’ lane, is a bed full, of crazy half-stunts
Geometry lessons that one learns, in explosions of grunts
Caught in a chemical monsoon, between lip and lip
Ushering in a crucible, alloying crevice and tip
So flesh turned sore, from toes to the skull
As love, the fender-bender, screamed to a lull.
In that destined instant, between now and never
Was a wishbone, longer, beckoning forever
She was the lass who counted a whole eternity
While he leaned over, and lifted her careless knee
And they both bled something beauty could not contain
Like the crimson tide, of red sea algae fame, in brief sustain
It was the blush of a cheek, after the forgone kiss
Like a moon turning to her pink-emboldened bliss
How sweet, not to know, the height or blight
How forgone is her mouth, in physics of bite and flight
And they made love like fools, under the full moon bright
Like a sacred prayer that exclaims in delight
And so, the baby fool, who carried, a heart so obesely big,
Learnt Juliet’s fire, was lit, by a lengthy twig of fig.