Tuesday, June 26, 2012

The Trans-Atlantic closeness

:

One-
Yesterday,
You were reciting Neruda to me
'If you forget me',
I barely registered the words
And you said,
"My voice, is it that sexy?"
It was.

That,
I told you
When you shave I can see
Just beneath your lower lip-left side a small cut, a birth mark
And you smiled at me, as if no one ever told you that.
That when you eat your khichudi with poshto, I laugh
And you kiss me like an adolescent.
When you gift me 'Karenina' for its societal philosophical impacts
and I make you watch "A streetcar named desire."
You talk me through "Abbey Road" by The Beatles as you would call it
and I would just ogle at your face.

And after indefinite cups of tea and salted biscuits
and talks that linger from Karl to Groucho.
You tell me that it will just be two years in Boston,
and smile
and sing "Leaving on a ..' While I cry.

Two-
Now,
When you tell me that you sleep with your computer on
and our picture in it, that without it sleep would not be.
That everytime you shave you touch that small clean cut as if it is me.
That you still eat Khichudi but no one knows how to make a Poshto here.
And that our stolen kisses would ordinarily last a lifetime.

You have seen all movies by Kazan and Vronsky is admirable
That the only time you were this happy was when you heard ‘The Beatles’ (as you’d call them) for the first time.

As I laugh amidst all the Trans-Atlantic disturbances
For, I still cry after.

I choose not to breakdown the verses that I write
And let them live there own life
the sadness it is just easier to word
Than to say it out aloud.

Three-
I
Live as if the ordinariness is necessary to sustain.
That the sun never sets in my world and vice-versa
I wish for a small cut just beneath my lower lip
Never eat any poshto or its variant.
Want to be looked by no one else so I keep my hair short.
Smell the last few drops of your leftover after-shave.

And,
Just so you know,
That Two hundred and fifty two days and seven hours and almost thirty minutes later
When you are walking through the immigration lines of Calcutta International and see me
You will find me just the way you left.

..Though on second thoughts
Plus two Kilos
Reading Marquez not Leo and some Pediatric Journals
Versed with Neruda and ‘The Beatles’
And
Yours, Just a bit more

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