By Pallabi Chakraborty
We've captured so many moments, The Polaroids, Shutters painted blue and gray, Embraces, tangled, lose, Caravans, pink skies, silhouettes. You don’t come to me in dreams anymore. I've heard December skies swallow people, Head first, And then the body.
We, the poets, love love. All sorts. The gypsy, the blues, the red, The autumn, the metaphors, The snuffed-out candle. I learnt to love without parachutes on my shoulders. So, I am running before I am walking, Or, drowning before I am floating. But, Love, I never learnt to love, like I never learnt to trade. So, Love, I have never met a comet that didn't want to destroy me, Or, a cigarette that didn't make my lungs scream, Or, an ocean that didn't want to drown me, Only to spit out hollowed out residues of My body. Reciprocation is less, And frames fortify only to shrivel. Like, our pictures from Brooklyn, Or, your grandfather in his uniform Going to war. Love, Love is not a war, Or, a death sentence, Or, some violation of reciprocity, Or, tugging you down with a weight, So you cannot fly. It's the hint of pistachio in my cinnamon roll, Or, flaked off paint on your favourite coffee table. So, Love, The tail-end of a tale is not reciprocation. It's love. And, the tail-end of love is not reciprocation. It's love.
By Pallabi Chakraborty
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