Old Love – Delhi Poetry Slam

Old Love

By Sanitha Sathyan

It's okay!

Let the lips of habit continue to suckle

the barren, cold breasts,

Let the honey of togetherness paint the house 

with bittersweet stickiness.

Or whatever remains, be preserved in

outdated metaphors on the drawing room walls!

 

I long for your dutiful cuddles

and dispassionate kisses.

It's comforting that 

you are capable of such odd acts of kindness

even when desire has left us without a trace,

like the lost hairs of youth.

 

And I wonder why I do not resolve to

redeem it someday, 

through its superstitious sea crossings

In seven days, seven months or seven years!

 

In this slithery grind of indifference

we bleed, wounded by our own 

courteous, considerate words, 

and the familiarity of breaths.

 

In these guerilla hills of our bed,

our bodies rebel in point blank kisses 

and poisoned embraces

whose souls, we know are hollow.

 

Like murderers, 

we grab each other by the throat, 

and pour a gulp of sorrow, despair,

sometimes unbearable hope.

 

When the ambush is over,

We gather the missile ends,

untouched land mines 

and other little toys.

 

And carry our wounded bodies to the loo,

or the kitchen fridge, like

kidnapped fugitives, suffocating 

for the land they would never return.

Yet

something beckons us, again and again.

Like the bath at home, where you

come back after all those detours and adventures

To wash dirt from the open wounds, 

To lick and heal the excitements,

To drown in the arms of familiarity, 

Perhaps, it is longing,

Perhaps, it is love.


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