Something is dead.
I can see its grave under the tree.
I wish it were buried under a lemon tree.
It could see bright lemon yellow flowers in April.
The month when I was born.
A thick bed of dry leaves covers the grave.
A tiny bird, could be Robin is hopping along picking up something
Could be a few crumbs of its history. Its lovelorn evenings.
Was not that on one of those evenings it met him?
When I was carrying it in my breast, wandering among unknown faces
distorted in cheerful moods, and bodies of different shapes,
moving rhythmically. To some music, coming from somewhere.
It urged me to follow this stranger. Whose eyes met mine.
So I did. About a block and around the corner, that little bookstore
before I lost sight of him. But stubborn my heart, wanted him to
play always on me. So much like a sweet song sleeps, and then wakes up
on the lips. That’s how, my heart went on a foolish escapade with a
warm-bodied, cold-hearted man. As usual, meaningless lines flew out
of my fingers. It packed my bags, jumped over the fence wandered on those trails.
Where shadows moved like sad and forlorn kisses.
It leant against the wall and remembered, how he held me as tightly
as he could in the kitchen. How I squirmed and buried my face in his
body. How he made love to me behind the wall.
How mornings and evenings huddled against the windowpanes.
When all the thrills were done, its bare feet danced in the rough grass
to the tune his lips sang as he glanced at the stranger in the evening traffic.
It collected all those stranded dreams that he forgot to touch. A tired face
knocked at my door, sang along with the wind chimes for while.
The night noticed it all. It trembled with a silent pain in the couch.
For the last time. One more night, I held it close against my breast,
went past his window unnoticed. He was sleeping, his head tilted
slightly to the floor. A football game was on his TV.
My heart slipped away from me. To sleep in that grave.
I met its death in my hands.