25 June 2017

This isn't a poem, but an account of a dream. But if dreams be poetry too, then so be it.  
 
 
We both looked paralized with the surprise of a physical reunion after such a long while. I took my time to study his face - features I had grown used to seeing in pictures and laptop screens through Skype,  (and once, thoroughly, after the first time we made out) but I was already sure it was him before he turn to me to do the same. I guess neither of us thought the universe would be so taunting and so foolish as to cross our paths again. He seemed clouded with hurt, and my body felt restless with apologies - I never thought an exchange of small talk could  pacify any of these. But when we kissed eventually, I swear I felt a poem brewing within him, and - dear heaven! - nothing excited me more than this. It was a collision of memories, incomplete, and a stroll along the line of romantic possibility.  
 
 
But I was only dreaming. (God damnit!) How did I not know this?