Something of Myself
Sunday, October 08, 2006
What if?
I owe this feeling to you. This fleeting moment that you hand me, I live in it; like a refugee. I wonder if you know.
It's strange how a man can be a child in a moment's time. How you can appease and allay, at the same time, with amazing alacrity - like being a mother and a midwife, both at the same time. The strangest thing being the time in which you do it. Swiftly you move from this to that, and I move on with you. Like a sweet tango. Slow but sure. Rising. Engulfing.
I wonder if you know.
That day you remember - by the graveside, how the moon seemed to peeping out of the sky, and how you wanted me to know about yourself? Do you remember the lake by which we sat, by which you read out your last poem to me? Do you remember the look on my face - of awe and wonder? Not an attempt to flatter but an attempt to understand your words...to differentiate between fact and fiction. Do you remember the pink daisies that you wore? It was so beautiful. You made me forget my deepest pain for the slightest second.
I wonder if you know.
Whence from did you come? Whereto are you heading? What is your purpose in my life? Are your co-incidences planned? Which school did you go to? Who was your first love? Why did you throw away the glass vase that your dad gifted you? Did it pain when your mother married another guy who was not your dad? Why are you the way you are? Is this just an illusion in my mind?
I spoke to him last night, when I was all alone. I told him about the stuff you do. Your past. He smiled. All of us are stained, aren't we, in some way or the other? He is happy for you. So am I.
The door-bell's ringing. I got to go. I have been preparing for this evening all my life. The table is spread. I got new wine glasses for you. I know what a perfectionist you are. I made the pasta myself. I ordered the dessert. I got new cushions so that you could be comfortable. I borrowed the mp3 player.
I wonder if you know, as you stand outside my door, drenched in white, holding your beloved's hand, that I know it's you and only you who can interrupt me at this moment.
I owe this feeling to you. This fleeting moment that you hand me, I live in it; like a refugee. I wonder if you know.
It's strange how a man can be a child in a moment's time. How you can appease and allay, at the same time, with amazing alacrity - like being a mother and a midwife, both at the same time. The strangest thing being the time in which you do it. Swiftly you move from this to that, and I move on with you. Like a sweet tango. Slow but sure. Rising. Engulfing.
I wonder if you know.
That day you remember - by the graveside, how the moon seemed to peeping out of the sky, and how you wanted me to know about yourself? Do you remember the lake by which we sat, by which you read out your last poem to me? Do you remember the look on my face - of awe and wonder? Not an attempt to flatter but an attempt to understand your words...to differentiate between fact and fiction. Do you remember the pink daisies that you wore? It was so beautiful. You made me forget my deepest pain for the slightest second.
I wonder if you know.
Whence from did you come? Whereto are you heading? What is your purpose in my life? Are your co-incidences planned? Which school did you go to? Who was your first love? Why did you throw away the glass vase that your dad gifted you? Did it pain when your mother married another guy who was not your dad? Why are you the way you are? Is this just an illusion in my mind?
I spoke to him last night, when I was all alone. I told him about the stuff you do. Your past. He smiled. All of us are stained, aren't we, in some way or the other? He is happy for you. So am I.
The door-bell's ringing. I got to go. I have been preparing for this evening all my life. The table is spread. I got new wine glasses for you. I know what a perfectionist you are. I made the pasta myself. I ordered the dessert. I got new cushions so that you could be comfortable. I borrowed the mp3 player.
I wonder if you know, as you stand outside my door, drenched in white, holding your beloved's hand, that I know it's you and only you who can interrupt me at this moment.
2 Comments:
beautifully written. i'm out of words ... ki bolbo? its that good.
It's hard to please you, so I am GLAD that you liked it. :) Thank you.
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