I remember how we watched a sunset from a metro rail at the tail end of the city –
How we sat side by side, cramped up, like the rose-petals and fern leaves all stacked together in a bouquet.
It happened all over the sky, dripping through the horizon – a glass full, overflowing the purple, the crimson, the orange, the yellow, the blue.
Nothing added up, that was okay.
We sat in air-conditioned silence and never talked about why it was not another 5:30 p.m.
We give up on everything so easily – on sunsets, on white crayons, on people sitting side by side in air conditioned metro rail, bundled up.
In hindsight: I tried to turn you into poetry, all of you. A cliche.
Unoriginal words, untrue memories safety-pinned into the vacancy to fool you and myself.
As it turned out, I either want everything or nothing. There is no seashore to stand between the sea and the land. A cliche.
In hindsight, you must think of me as a shapeshifter – pouring my indecisions into your preconcept felt like I finally belong somewhere.
My words for your poems, my hand movements for your gesture, my blankness for your rapture.
Unfortunately, we are better in fragments – as broken shards of light. So many atoms cannot possibly fit into one compound.
Remember how you were so moved by Neruda’s sonnet you wrote your own poem on it – how my opinions about the colour blue bled into your opinion of it – how you sent me a text message to let me know that you missed me where there was nothing to miss.
I have to seek inspiration before writing. Words still do not come to me unpremeditated.
This is not a poem, I am only trying put myself back together – myself meaning a Picasso painting. Only in my case, heart in the place of heart, sunsets in the place of sunsets – sunsets meaning 5:30 p.m.
It ends how it begins. A cliche.