An old love flaunted itself in half-written letters.
An old love buried in the slippery sands of time.
An old love puffed fiercely, flashed sugary smiles,
Clenched at me tight, and loosened,
Cried in long, ragged sobs.
An old love finds me in smoke, sips of coffee and yawning.
An old love comes to visit me, his face ghostly and blurred.
I take him in and we begin to talk,
Greet each other in discreet, playful nods.
We talk in shadows and scribbling,
In warm monotones and the equation of rhetoric.
We’ve rubbed off awkward kisses, wayward fantasies
With the palm of our hands.
Our delicate, birdlike buffoonery slapped hard
By a slate of routine chores.
A scrapbook of lost words careen around the room.
My hands, stretch out to him in stray lines
Azure blue, green, purple shades of calf love.
Keystrokes of a lost harmony, fading, resounding,
Crossing paths in a dim, complicated dream,
Melting, wafting, diminishing again.
An old love is a long smear on my whiteboard face,
In twilight memories, summons me
In anonymous blinks and glittering.
I watch him from afar, lanky, white-haired and lost,
Leave the room with the faint odor of our used up days.
Lopa Banerjee. October 23, 2014