Park Street

The darkness you have kept as your face Is the pupil of your conscience, It is dilated in alarm. What are you trying to grope? Why are you trying to grope? All the sheets, seats and streets That have our names stamped and buried Under that of millions of others, Must be feeling betrayed by now Or Relieved that we did not put our heavy-heart-ed bodies On them again. Phew! So why am I feeling bad for the raindrops Which fought with the sweat of our love-making? Why am I feeling bad for the mirror Which reflected our mismatched hearts and mismatched bodies As if they would have ruled the world together one day? Why am I feeling bad for the paper cup Which let me taste you and you, me for the first time? I am not really. It is just that I like to fall in love. I love the smell of sadness in every parting memory I love the taste of every drop of blood from betrayal I love the touch of ashes peeling and floating into oblivion From my parched heart. Give me a fool, I will love him. But I can never love who loves a fool. ~ Entry for Nostalgia Contest~