Hello!
Here is my poem “Our Last Meeting”; sending it for consideration for the featured poem of the week.
OUR LAST MEETING
Love was not a great thing for me,
Loving you was not a choice,
It didn’t commence,
It didn’t proceed,
It didn’t happen,
It wasn’t a love story,
It wasn’t him or her,
It wasn’t them,
Wasn’t that place,
Wasn’t that day, that hour,
Could be me, my body, my heart, or could not be this too.
Intimacies, rather making love,
Making a day, a night,
Needed no desires, no moans, no sighs, no breaths, and no movements.
Like.., just like my amoebic drawings of childhood.
They all did that, I also wanted to,
Or maybe I did not.
A robe, a bucket, a hair, a bag, a grain of sand, some sea shells,
All blue-white-pink-grey-orange-any colour all,
A thoughtless and emotional looking “really really nice”
But last time, I thought of tearing you off.
Gripping you head with my feet and, tearing off the flaps,
I did, as I always did, I manhandled with care (myself),
Tore everything off; seeing how human blood looks, how it runs;
I don’t have a love story here for YOU.
Love isn’t a great thing, for nobody does it.
-Shelley
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