What’s unsaid

I could go on and on, about that swirling mass,
beneath those deep brown eyes,
fragrantly arresting, softly ravishing,
fleetingly captivating, timelessly withholding,
but we know that’s too far-fetched anyway,
but strangely enough, they’ll think it’s truth,
but stranger than strangely enough if I
wrote something too real, they’ll think
it parallels the gravity that keeps me
grounded, the two masses you and I,
one dead, another coping, and constant
torture that gives life to art, but
you and I sit, our glasses clinking,
a little too alive, and I’ll admit that
deep side part, flowing hair and the look
you give me makes me ignore
the tick-tock, the what ifs, and
the tomorrows, never
forever, but perhaps for an hour,
and that’s the only theme slow waltzing,
or fox-trotting through the poems I write,
but you know how the quasi-aphorism
is chock-full of aporias, but the aporias
in life are true enough to keep us together,
not in some vague
memory, pieces abstractly
put together by a lot of suffering,
but here, admitting that we’re together,
pulling through it all with a tear and a
smile, through sickness
and tenderness, and so let
the fanatics who say that truth changes,
never faithful, uncommitted, moving
from person to person, and yet radical
enough to wound each other stay,
I’m just glad you’re here,
and I know you’ll remember me telling
you today that I love you, not in an uncanny,
celestial way, or a powerful passion on fire
way, just a touch, a soft kiss and you and I know
that’s stranger than fiction, darling.

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2017)

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