by Deeptesh Sen
The morning after is always painful.
Invasion of astonished light
on your questioning glance;
a cruel emptiness.
Five bottles of aspirin
and telephone bills unpaid.
A taste of bitter sleep
on the wild geometry of your lashes.
Spilled shadows caressing the folds
of your violet dress that melted
into the tendrils of the night,
you stood there naked as glass, shivering
with everything that makes you a woman.
My hands travelled your selpruchal walls
smooth like the white sands of time,
quivering at the salty brim of your ocean.
My fingers found faith.
The night fell through my fingers
like candle-wings of rain.
My sight snaked like war
across the carnal perfumes in your armpit.
My kisses healed the snow
and scurried like mad rivers
along the fragile, nomad landscape.
My thunder drank the moons
cascading down the wild silence of her thighs.
Her hair rebeling against her wordless sky,
there she stood
in the unnaturalness of the fractured moment,
a tiny bit of infinity.
Your eyes had the scent of bells,
your laughter the secret lust of open windows.
My fingers revealed doors
of our little boat sailing in the orange clock,
with violin sails.
And now,
the morning cofee is dull
and lacks saccharine.
Strange shapes descend
from clocks and trees
as photon policemen storm into our bed.
Stench of unwashed vegetables
murder the November breeze
while dead cats remember rainbows in their dreams.
Your morning breath
spidering up along my lips,
castrates sleep.
You feed the birds with mild rebukes.
We talk of metaphysics and rain.

0 thoughts on “Remembrance

  1. So many of these lines and visual images are etcher-sketching themselves into my brain. It’s good to see poets take on love and skirt cliche venturing into the very depths of hell to come out with a personal and original perspective.
    A part of me would have liked this poem to be entitled ‘My fingers’ rather than ‘Remembrance’–i loved how the senses were entertwined in extrapolating this wonderful ideal moment of love. I think it would be young love cause that’s how so many of us start out conceptualizing love and conceiving it…giving hyperbolic birth to it. Then when it’s born and we live with it we discover a different not so pretty reality. For us old people, i think we do find a practical romanticism in the real world–the stench of vegetables, morning breath, sqawking birds, etc. Hell,i just get up and brush my teeth in the morning and then come back to bed naked for a quickie before the kids wake up. But, we HAVE TO remember our first impressions and ideals of love however innocent, impractical, naive…because this is an anchor of sorts tempering our notions and expectations and adding spice to the otherwise bland fuck-buddy syndrome.
    Thanks for sharing! Great read!

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