Insanity.
Creeps around your mind slowly before it takes you under.
When your eyes finally flutter open, the world is a black and white blur.
Except for that one pair of striking eyes that made you insane in the first place.
Except for that one song, that always makes you think of them.
And you want the music to stop, but if fills your head.
And you can't help,
But dance alone.
In a padded room.

I remember mornings at your house,
sunshine pouring over me through the floral drapes,
forcing me to scrunch my to return to darkness.
Then, the sweet smells hit my nose
and my eyes were wide open.
Sizzling, frying, and your humming hit my ears.

I pulled myself out of bed
that I had so carefully been tucked in to,
and I made my way into the kitchen.

There you stood, with such poise,
Moving with sixty-five years of grace
through steam and grease.  
You swayed around the stove,
Danced from *** to pan,
armed with a fork in your left hand
and a spatula in your right.

You turned and saw me there, in the doorway,
both of us smiling.  
We shared our good mornings
and you poured a tall glass of milk
for me.  

I sat, waiting, watching
you spin around the kitchen,
stirring, scrambling, flipping,
with such purpose that the sweat
on your forehead went unnoticed.

You filled my plate with pancakes, eggs, and bacon;
golden brown, scrambled, and crispy,
the way I like it.
You didn’t eat.  
Only sipped your coffee and smiled.

Now, here I’m standing,
fumbling, burning and cursing,
Preparing bacon and eggs
over my cheap electric stove,
and I’m barely beginning to understand
the reasons your breakfast tasted so good.

The lights of the city sparkle from outside my window.
They, this view, will always remind me of you.

Water splashes down at my face and up at my boots as I walk these cobbled streets
- the same ones we used to stroll
hand in hand
white dog in tow
glancing up at the brownstones we passed
and joking how we'd live there one day.
Only I wasn't joking..

Remember when you kissed my face
and wrapped the strength of your arm around my shoulder like I was yours,
the only one?
I do...

Because the thing is I'm going to miss you.
I'm going to ache for you
and maybe cry myself to sleep a time or two.
I wonder if it will ever be easy to let you go
the way it was for you.

I'm not sorry I have to go;
I shouldn't have to convince you to love me.
But I wonder if you will remember me
and each night we spent wrapped in each other's arms
watching movies and knocking my laptop to the floor
because we were so eager to touch.

These are the things I need to know.
Because as I stand near this window
and watch the lights flicker on with twilight
I remember you waiting there,
watching you throw your bag over your shoulder.
I remember waiting for the smile and wave that never came
and the call that never rang..

and still
it was the sweetest goodbye I've ever known.

I see you busy in your work.
Your hair, more white than black, is thin
And falls loosely over your shoulders;
There is a vein that beats prominently
Above your forehead, and your hands
Now gently shake when you are tired.
Your clothes sit light on you, the lines
On your face speak of the years in the sun;

You are not now the same person you were.
The back that bore the weight of three children
Is somewhat bent with time;
You had walked out of home to work
Overcoming the loud small-town voices
And your own shyness; they are silent now.
You were made of iron, but that too rusts.

I think of all this, and time, and sorrow.
You see me and conscious of my gaze
You smile your smile of missing teeth.
You are old, like silver, beautiful:
You seem to have walked out of a painting
By Raphael or some Renaissance master;

I cannot breathe, I am overcome:
There are days like this when we live
As if death or time did not matter,
When it is bliss just to be alive;

You tell me it may rain, to take the umbrella.
Among the most mundane things to say;
And all I think is how grateful I am
For life and you and everything,
And how old age should be exactly like this:
To have lived a life doing the things you love
Being the mistress of the small things,
Watching what you gave your heart to take shape.

Diptesh Ghosh

I think of her
running her hands over your hair and across your face
and it makes me sick.

Because I know I get frustrated with the way you want me
and it may seem I don't appreciate you
and I know I need to work on letting you have your space.

But she doesn't know you're self-conscious of your scars
or that touching them makes you squirm.
She's going to try to kiss you
and maybe you'll let her
but then she'll find out your lips are soft like clouds
and she'll never want to stop.

She's going to start growing weak when you speak
because every word has a meaning
and eventually she'll learn which smile is the one that means you've let go of the past
- if only for the moment.

She'll start to grow sad when you need time alone.
She doesn't know that painting's your whole life
and she won't understand.
She won't know that writing's the way you escape
when your mind is too narrowed on your past to focus on the future.

Because you won't tell her about Nigeria
or why you have to feel in control
or maybe you will, once you're sure she's the one.

But I guess if she makes you happy, I'm happy.
Because that's all I've ever wanted for you.
No wait - I'm not that selfless
because I still love you, too...