Thursday, November 16, 2006


Before this age is lost
on old couplets damp with love
djinns born of bored liaisons
sing soulful romeo songs
as granted was a dying wish
with end so near to me

They decided to meet on a hot afternoon, like so many others did before them, running into each others arms, their chests exploding with anxiety and happiness. The men and women judged them, just like they judged others who dared to defy invisible rules and gods. It was not important which of the two arrived, they both simply waited for the moment when they will cry and smile and blurt out I Love yous reluctantly, hoping that the words get stuck in their throats.

But memories of the future deserve their due as well, so maybe it would be more pleasing if they met on a strange night, in a crowded room full of friends and foes. She will dance her old moves while he will watch her indifferently, conscious of the bodies separating her from the others. Glimpses of his infrequent glances might frustrate her but it will be a perfectly rehearsed act. When she will walk towards him, smiling cruelly, as if mocking his lusty intentions, he will lock her gaze and strip her naked. No more pretensions. She will hold his arm and dig her nails into his flesh. He will hug her and tickle her waist. They will start laughing like kids who no longer remembered the rules of hide and seek.

And finally when they met, the only company they had was an old mattress with wine stains lying in a cold bare room filled with her careless laughter. Their naked bodies not touching but her feet occasionally rubbing against his to keep them warm. His head was resting on his elbow and his eyes were watching her talk animatedly about everything and nothing. She talked about classic rock, chasing bees out of a hive, failing to buy boots and a long story about a man getting lost in Paris even though she had never been to Paris.

He knew her eccentric tales, predictable moves and shiny eyes but could not remember her name. She knew his songs, his melody, his jokes, his religion and the colour of his socks but was a stranger to her childish heart; the only one who fed on dry sarcasm and professed undying love for her. He hated her for chain smoking, smelling of mint and singing Phil Collin songs. She loved the moles on his chest, his condescending nods and bored eyes. He wished she would grow up lying next to him; she wished he would love her again. When she finally fell asleep, the pit of his neck was filled with her warm breath and his thoughts with her dreams.

She forgot to write the rest of the script.
Maybe she will see his naked back and a cloud of smoke before he leaves.
Maybe she will kiss his forehead and watch the red bruises turn purple.