The moon with her muted, ashen, post-apocalyptic light partially illuminates my path, enveloped with clinkers of despair and hankering – an off-time, off-tune sequence with a murderous coda. I pass withered Jacarandas, hoping that I’ll find you after this battered car or after walking past the smog that coats the splintered sidewalks. I look yonder and see the mist coated peaks with snowflakes cascading like a haiku: The five syllables of a wintry crimson, followed by seven syllables saying that I love you with fierce, dark pain and the final five touching the ground screaming, ‘Summer seems far off.’ I dust off the motes of purgatory that cling to me and keep walking though I look grey and everything looks like cigarette ash. I fucking love you, and ask myself if the recollections and echoes of memories now stagnant, buzzing like flies over rotten meat are worth the effort. But I’ve flipped this coin so many times before, over the years and regardless of where it ends, I can’t rid myself of you. You’re the green, vivacious wine that creeps over each broken, disjointed wall that personifies a fractured me. When we made love, did you only think of the now and completely displace the after? Was it something transient, and did the nirvana to the rhythm of that soft snare, slowly building up with the double bass and tom-toms and hi-hats mean nothing to you? No, I’d like to think differently because you’re like me, loving and pouring each ounce of affection on the other. I often think if I need an exorcism, strapped, while the priest chants and rids me of you, but having loved you with the unmitigated desire of the Flame of the Forest, dancing to each breeze of togetherness, having kissed you and slowly sliding down your neck and gently biting you with unparalleled sorrow and the pleasure of maniacal ardor, having slowly and fiercely found our cadence on that peak I finally met after a long taxing sojourn makes each moment worth it, and gives me a plethora of new dimensions to explore, hoping one day they’ll be mine.
© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)