Receipt

I wait for the delivered sign
To change to a read receipt;
But, knowing you are fast asleep,
It most becomes a matter of conceit:
To be upset you could turn away
And find peace in sleep so soon,
When I can’t help lie wide awake,
In the darkness of my room.

I wonder if our differences
Would be smaller than love,
If you know I’m not stronger
Than those who push and shove,
Who play games that shed blood,
With guns and ganks and strategy,
Who are young with ribs and abs,
With no depth to counter young vanity.

I wonder, if you notice all the nights
I lie awake and wonder if I’ll win,
In this round of relationships
And manage this subtle crucifix of sin.
With shards of jealousies and tempers
That have not worn out with age
And if I begin to speak of my faults
I’d need more than one soliloquy on stage.

Yet I have eyes, eyes that glisten
With past sacrifice and present emotion
And they gather all that there needs to be known
About people, love, lust and devotion.
You have my love now for better
Or for worse, for all of my remaining days
And perhaps all of the hours and years
That make up the sum of a fantastic always.

Make me know if I have yours and you
For I bitterly fail at the one thing called trust
So give me hope and make me know
If we can link our fates or perhaps if we must.
And the signs must change as is their wont
And sleep will come floating down the throat of night
As I sit and lie and live with or without you
Choosing in bursts to win or surrender the fight.

 

Those books, those films, those stories and those songs

Those books, those films, those stories and those songs

Convinced us how love in life belongs.

They made us sops look for it all over:

Hope to look for it in four leaf clovers.

They never mentioned what to do after –

When the tears slyly kill the laughter,

When the stars and moon blot out and die,

When we glean every one was a lie.

They never talk of love’s staying in lease,

Or of death, or of pain, or of disease;

They never mentioned how love loses faith,

How it doesn’t need another love to mate.

 

Maybe, I am to blame for I looked away,

From the books, films, songs that had this to say.

 

I realize now what love’s true nature is:

Unjust quotients of sadness and bliss,

A ruse to reproduce before you get forlorn,

With nothing to do once the kids are gone.

Of this I’m sure: after all the cheating,

Although love leaves, the heart keeps on beating.