No, I don’t think of you anymore.
My memories have turned into pulp,
In a clogged sink of broken smiles and practical solutions
That I clean out everyday so that
My whimsical fancies can still flow
My kitchen counter is a diary
Of songs I stopped singing midway
And tears I couldn’t hold back –
I still cry on some days, in this city that feels like
The arms of a new paramour
With some vestiges of the cologne you wore on the last day
We made love.
Each time I rewind my memories,
They become a little rusted
A little faded
A little tattered on the edges;
I remember how you scorned at sentimentality.
I still listen to your songs on some days
And try to sing my own
But I can hardly identify my voice anymore.
I left a part of me with you on the last day we met
And maybe, it still haunts my favourite bookstores and cafés.
I’m not returning to you, not now
And even if I do
I’ll be your déja vu
You wouldn’t know where to place…
24 December 2017