if I open my palm
and watch the thin, white fingers
press up against the dead of the bed-sheet fabric,
I still won't remember her
Yet I grieve
I do not know.
How is it that there is a phrase for it?
Like from the very start,
we all knew
and touch was something destined to be lost
Between the sheets, from the tenderness of our skins,
one with each other, another with ourselves.
Grief is necessary.
It is all there is of what you can't remember
but remember grieving for before.
Remind me what I said
when it meant something.
Even if the words were mine,
remind me what they meant then.
Say you were there before.
Tell me I meant them.
Come sit by my side.
Let those dazed by the music fling towards it.
Let them gather like flies around the light.
We won't bother or be bothered tonight.
Remember me, my love.
And if you choose not to come:
do as I did-
Tell it to the ceiling at night
things that may not mean much
for anyone who is neither you or me.
Remember at least the love.
For hours, I lied there alone
staring above at the pitch black darkness
and for the lack of stars, considered your laughter.
Poetry by Praveen Bhusal
Read 237 times
Written on 2018-04-21 at 07:54
Save as a bookmark (requires login)
Write a comment (requires login)
Send as email