This one is called Curious.
It’s where we rode against a cool September breeze,
Under the uncaring cloud of a night,
Your arms wrapped around my cold frame,
That tried not to quiver
When you traced my arched spine
And felt for every bone and muscle
Like a cartographer studying contours
Of her next site.
You’d later tell me you don’t miss it,
While ransacking another town
For its relics of fame.
I still live in that winter city
Where a street bears your name.
I named this one Serendipity.
In your honour, mademoiselle.
You knew you had my love
At your beck and call.
So we walked on this busy street,
Hand in hand, merrily towards
My grand fall.
You’re the one, I said,
So did you,
Or so it played in my head.
When you left, I lay on my broken back
For a long time, playing dead.
You now speed past the spot
Where I spat blood and memories
So my mouth wouldn’t taste of your name
In this nostalgia laden lane.
There’s a boulevard
Where a string of pearls
Lines the reflection of a town forgotten
In waters that ripple,
When nobody’s looking,
With memories of a conversation.
That tenacious specter of a street
I call Naive, after all the years
We spent planning a life,
And taking poetic oaths of magical forevers.
I lost my directions, on purpose,
To the one I called Lost.
For once I entered that labyrinth,
Darkness was all I found,
Somewhere in these carelessly christened
Lanes i own
Of carefully preserved memories, i wonder
If there’s home.
What remains of towns
After wars that ravage, they ask?
Ghosts, I say,
Shadows of stories looking for something to call