I used to think that
if I made a trip back in time
I’d be fast enough to stop you –
I used to think that a
selfish rewind would bring you back
safe & sound.

You were a silent child,
one who would lie limp – an apple in your right hand;
amidst the wasteful afternoons they’d spend
flailing below the soft clouds;
you were the boy whom
nobody would notice in the
dusty crevices of the neon shades of
red and green.

Submerging into the soft memory
cushions of our childhood I used to
smile, waves of sepia nostalgia
sending chills, along with a tinge of
sweetness.

Remembering your traces was bittersweet,
now more bitter than sweet; a lopped ratio.

Maybe if I had been quicker on my flat feet,
maybe if I had been more sober on a silent evening,
maybe if I had been there you wouldn’t have left, would you?

I used to wonder, watching you lie limp;
where had your teeming enthusiasm gone,
where had your everlasting positivity
faded to,
was it in a dark corner?
or had it left along in your backpack;
or had it disappeared;

You were a victim to
the vicious lies spat by the most innocent
creature called hope;
you were left to desperation amidst the
busy street –
you were left to nothing.

Perhaps pushing your palms together
and wishing for the best
was not sufficient in the maroon eyes of
death in which you’d see your reflection,
tired and worn.

Maybe if I lodged my right knee
against the cold marble floor,
and begged hard enough with
the sole image of your sweetest –

“We had nothing to our name but the old
mutual understanding that we were together, a mishap; a disaster.”

And by now perhaps I was ill,
gravely ill from the dearth of
the fruits, the green apples which well pleased
by pitless avarice, because
[perhaps even an alteration in our memories wouldn’t change our ending]