Diary Of An Old Lover's Ghost
[Note: This is not a poem. But a collection of passing thoughts on different days. Thus, emotions are more important than the poetry itself.]
I was there at my funeral.
None but myself. None at all.
And as my burning flesh reeked of memory and desire,
The rose in my skull crumpled and shrinked,
I burst out in hysterical shriek.
You could not have a heard.
There is a world apart.
Your sun rose with me.
I opened the door, removed the curtains,
Then we had breakfast together.
Now at sundown I think of these.
Those were some other days,
Days of some other sun,
When I could hold you tight with my eyes,
You smiled and did not object.
Friday: Had I been…
Saturday: What could I…
Sunday: Did you try…
Monday: It is impossible to say just what I mean.
And all those smiles you smile this day,
Owe a part to me,
I who taught them with my own eye,
How enchanting they seem to be.
And there in Nainital,
Where stars on a black night sky came down
And became specks of fire on mountaintops,
You looked at me and said,
"Behold, and you won't forget."
I have never taken your photograph since.
You gave me hyacinths a year ago;
They called me the hyacinth girl.
-Yet when we came back, late, from the hyacinth garden,
Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not
Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither
Living nor dead, and I knew nothing,
Looking into the heart of light, the silence.
Hours of dreams,
Calm and distressed,
Why don't I believe? Believe!
How I wish I could die.
Sweet words, sweet thoughts, sweet, sweet…
When you said you want my death,
I was like Titanic, hour before it sank.
A thousand of my terror split pieces running inside me,
And I was still, waiting to collapse.
That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it at all.
And they say love is life.
I have seen with my own eyes,
Acid remains of that transient emotion,
Charring my soul and body,
Seeping hot lava through my porous heart,
Eating away my rotten brain,
Like insects of Hell on dead flesh.
And they say love is life!
Will you never understand me?
Will you never understand…
Will you never…
There is a chain of ants after me.
One ant for each day,
They march and make their way,
Through my socket, into my cranium.
Why don't they ever leave me alone?
Because I do not hope to turn again
Because I do not hope
Because I do not hope to turn
Desiring this man's gift or that man's scope
I do not strive to strive for such things…