I loved you when some Plathian muse found you
that night, and you just typed lines, slightly dense,
a little obscure, misunderstood, misconstrued,
and hell, even hated by most.
I loved you, when you struggled to find a voice,
both in life and in art, and said, “I can’t do it
anymore,” with a choke between each syllable,
ripping my heart, urging me to find some way,
some route to help you gain closure.
I loved you, when you tried with all your might
to swim against the current of sickness and time,
coughing blood, even though you never smoked,
connected to a tube, with poison seeping through,
your only savior also a murderer.
I loved you, when you walked around, in a gown,
a fragile reflection of the woman you were,
bald, and still hoping for some solace in the words
you wrote on a page, and me, your only reader.
I loved you, as I kept each note, reading them when I
worked, footing the bills, and your
tragic optimism of a togetherness, both carrying
and breaking me.
I loved you, when you finally succumbed, and the
machine flat lined, and though, I looked and looked,
I couldn’t find anything, but those notes I kept,
photographs that seemed like a blur, and
the poetry you left, using a pseudonym, on a
blog now defunct.
I loved you, when I walked towards the coffin,
unable to deliver a eulogy, and instead just
sputtering words you once wrote me, concealing
my cries to oblivion, whispering a ‘why?’
I fucking love you, and I’m unable to write
this, the past I’ve never spoken about coming back,
hitting me like a maelström of rough syllabic
shards, cutting flesh, and breaking bone, and
I never asked for poetry, and I’ll stop,
if I could see you just once more.
© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)