On a saturday you called me out of the blue and asked to meet at the park
The autumn had made a carpet of red, orange and yellow,
the scent of cinnamon and pumpkin spice that permeated the air.
I waited on a bench.
The autumn has always seemed forlorn, waiting for her long lost lover that maybe forgot about her,
maybe that's why when the winter comes,
everything dies a little,
a pain that comes in the colour of white,
a serene semblance of peace that leaves a chill in the bones.
I don't know why I have my journal clutched in my hand.
It's full of pages and pages of poetry that begins and ends with you,
pages where I have immortalised our love
and gave you a death that benefits a king.
Somewhere in the past at this moment
our younger selves are sleeping under the stars
whispering in each other's ear
promising each other that we won't become the discarded verses of a Plath's poem or a sonnet that resembles a Shakespearean tragedy.
We hold each other in our arms
fingers clutched tight
lips whispering the love that brims in our hearts,
our words buried in our throats 'cause we do not need them,
our silence, speaking for us.
So now those nights have become memories we buried or maybe we forgot
'cause before we forgot our love
first, we had learned to forget the memories.
now it all feels like the faint echoes of a time we are not sure we lived anymore.
So there was love now there is nothing
or maybe there is,
but it's far too deep for us to ever find it
we had learned to let go of all that we were for the people we wanted to become.
We became the constellations in the sky of our love that left scars that's not visible.
I found a boy who found a way to stitch his name over those scars
but sometimes I can hear them whispering your name.
closure came after acceptance of everything we could not be
So now when I think about us, I wonder if we were an autumn dream that died in the winter.
yet in spite of it all I wonder,
why is it that my poetry still reeks of your love
Writer:- | Parvathy Madhu |
IG :- ( @paro