chaiNboli

You left me and God left with you,

and am searching for you (both)

in the silent pockets of nights ,

in the throat of pigeons and

in the half eaten chocolate piece.

We should have split the evening

we met into two,

rather than taking it with me.

I am sorry for taking that and

your knife in my bare hands.

I am sorry for keeping it with me

and weaving poems out of it.

I am sorry that I knelt on the ground with it

in the kitchen floor and

for staring at my wrists for three days.

Then I stood up like a flame and

kissed the berries for their existence.

In the bathtub I wrote that

you are the sun and am Icarus.

That we are open hands and closed eyes

That we are open eyes and closed fists.

That angels are crying for us, ugly creatures.

Even if we are not poetic enough as the wrinkles of a refugee whose grave was disturbed by atomic bombs,

I will write and write,

cry and sob in my bed,

and nobody would ever understand

how cruel am to myself.

I will be ignored like a child wailing,

and would be judged for my tantrums.

And between rosaries and razors

I will be dreaming of a parallel universe

where everyone is kinder and happier,

but we are the same. That is we are dead.