I remember the glint of sunshine on her hair that day in July.I forget which.I remember that the sun made her glasses shine and I think there was a smile on her lips.I remember that she had short,curly tendrils of hair that fell over her forehead and when she smiled,her nose crinkled up.

That is all.I forget the rest.Whether we spoke.What she said to me if she did at all.If I could bring myself to look her in the eye-slanted,dark brown and glinting in the sun too from behind those glasses.Or maybe I looked away,knowing that the little storm like devastation bubbling in my heart,the tightening of my stomach,were details I should not let escape.

I did not write about her then.Maybe in a different time,in a different world I would have.Written her a poem,perhaps a song.In this world there is not much I can do.

Just remember the mass of black curls framing her face and a ring on her nose that sparkled with the rest of her.I do not know her name.I do not think I should have asked.

But there was sunlight streaming in through the windows then,into the  big cardboard house of a room,and she was a flickering glimmer that came in with the sun.

There is no sunlight here now,but I write it into being.I write her into being,as if she were here,as if she were at all.

Advertisements

quiet winter afternoons at home alone make me so terribly nostalgic for childhood. suddenly all i want is to feel that perfect peace again as i lie in bed with a fat “story book” and eat an obscene amount of chocolate without worrying about my weight and know that every little problem like third grade arithmetic is really a triviality. i want to reach out for gifts tucked under my pillow on christmas morning and feel that wonderful happiness.i miss not minding much, not minding having only one pair of shoes that i would wear everywhere,sneaking upon my mother’s one tube of lipstick and secretly smearing the dark red over my lips with a strange subversive thrill and not feeling the great heavy weight of wanting anything other than perhaps the next book in the wishing chair series.everything was so bright and sunny and simple and i miss it

It was a hazy summer afternoon-June I think,or maybe March

(The summer is always early in my land,how about yours?)

Four years ago,nearer five or so I think

(We are careless about ticking away of clocks here,how about where you live?)

I think I think

I unearthed a musty photograph

and the light was low

and I am not sure but perhaps your eyes were clouded over

from the little I can remember

(It is always cloudy here from smoke or steam).

And I never thought I would write about you again

If only a ritualistic rumination of distance in a bid to purification

of this soul-if i have one (we are careless about these things here)

from what came after.

But I remember the cold nights, face down mathematics notebooks,toes twined

and all that fierce love bubbling in the cauldron,

and I am a little sad it never got to know any fate other than spewing over.

Now that all those years keep running into each other

And all the burnt over rust of memories start to taste the same

Stay stuck under the tongue as a metallic aftertaste

I remember this,and I remember that the end sees always a folded over home

But I remember that night-or was it nights-and I remember the stars outside

My window by starlight,and I remember being fifteen,and it all

Smells and sounds and tastes like

All the love I never got round to clothe disaster in and carry over

But I remember being so young,the universe always threatened to spill over

All over my faded tshirts and baggy cargo pants,and I remember the. storms

and the stars and the rustle of the leaves

And I remember,four years in I still couldn’t learn what

love means what love is what love should bring

And I think there was a great deal of light

But talking of light this is what I do remember

The sunsets were glorious in my city that year,how about in yours?