You were in the next room, a few months ago,
talking to mother, asking about me, hoping
you’d get to see me, and though haggardly,
horrible, the syllables balanced on the tip
of my tongue, before the saliva of not
wanting friendship, which always leads
to intimacy, drew them back to my
throat and cot, considering you’re
alluringly beautiful, attractively hopeful,
and your voice and elegant tone betrays
a deeper depth, that isn’t a muse or
inspiration even though I’m paradoxically
writing a poem about you, and a part
of me wants to hack through this Trojan,
not wanting a poetic war, and just talk to you,
wearing that brown jacket
and beige top, my mother gifted you,
looking poetically endowed, sensually
lifting my spirits, but the modern
equivalent of the word, ‘Trojan’ has
connotations, and one of them is
a virus, yes a virus infecting my essence,
offering euphoric transience, that
shifts into an apathetic menace,
changing the
inflection of my soul’s frequency:
sorrowed to static, with a dreamy
bar, now and then – making me
lose myself to a stained glass
reverie, abstract, but the shapes,
contours, colors pulling me nearer to
hope or at least false hope, and so, I guess
this stays an idea, which I’ll free myself of
by metamorphosis, unless I get to meet
you, and you’re not what I imagined,
then I’ll write you, the syllables
climbing and climbing, searching
and searching and finally finding
catharsis in simply what’s plainly said,
and if those words mean more and more
to you, then you’ve conquered
more and more of me, slowly and slowly,
and if that’s not love, I don’t know what is.

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)

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