Untitled Love Poem

We are still alike

Oh lover, we are still not much different

You still wiggle your toes

After you remove your socks

Dragging your feet over the skinny carpet threads

We still have so much left in common.


I unpacked everything I owned

Your apartment was dingy.

It was mouldy and cold,

It was everything I ever wanted in a home.

I unpacked suitcases,

And books,

And answers.

I unpacked the expired pills,

And I opened books

That had long since yellowed,

Such that the words had dripped down its edges

And into waiting mouths of hungry, lazy afternoons.

I unpacked the little girl

From back-benches

Lonely lunch hours,

And frighteningly long days

And put her in the highest shelf of your empty closet.

I sieved the reality from the memories I had

Of throwing letters into dustbins

Because anyone who finds it burnt and destroyed

Must think it emerged out of unbearable, special, extraordinary…



Lover, your closet lies too empty.

You have no baggage,






If you only realized your lack of pain after you met me,

How did you talk to your father?

With a sense of knowing a stranger in the arms of a man

Who could not protect you from that filthy neighbor.


Lover, we are still not that different.

You still buy no music,

You still try to find silence in my neck

When we make love.

You still say “Still?”

When I tell you I want to kill myself.

You still carry all your weapons in the farthest drawer,

So that late at night you can convince yourself,

That getting up from the strangle of my arms,

Is not worth having to walk to find cure.


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