Only Too Late

I have had my share of love or exaggerated infatuation,

which one it is I do not know,


I have had my share of people

standing beneath my balcony on the only evenings

of downpour when I chose not to take my mug of tea outside.

I have had my share of

songs played to me on guitars on the only Christmas night

when I wasn’t in love with music or the musician who ran a little too late.

I have had my share

lying at the bottom of the only drawer of the chest, amongst

once lost nail clippers, where I search for a bottle opener with freshly trimmed nails.

I have had my

ribcage dismantled like the handles of the only kind of steel

tiffin dabbas which make a clicking sound before the boxes are unstacked and their content exposed.

I have had

wretchedness seep into my skin on the only nights I starved

of affection, like bitter nourishment filling my pores and cuticles in place of the affinity which once did dearly.

I have

a profound curiosity for the only feeling in the world which

could imitate that of fan air that fills rooms in March, and brings back nostalgia from the first days of last spring, and


know I will only discover the true meaning of love

amidst ignored raindrops, forgotten carols, lost nail clippers, rusted lunch boxes, accepted woes and irretrievable seasons on a day when I will finally

make peace with not knowing the difference between love and exaggerated infatuation.


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