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vamikaPoems
Time: 1 Us: 0 Will it always be like this? Swinging our racquets at Einstein's illusion. Singing, singing, singing 'Stop the World I Wanna Get Off With You' when nobody hears over the relentless tick-tocks. As      as the clock's hands push          push pull us together, apart. Hey, you. Are we lovers or are we opponents? Let's look at the scoreboard. Time: 1 Us: 0 In school, they taught us perseverance. So we keep dancing, dancing, dancing                                               around the hands of the clock. I'm on number 3 and you face me. What's it like on number 9? What's it like to be on the edge of the next hour, the next day, the next big thing? You're on number 9, I'm on number 3. I face you, you face me. Are we lovers or are we opponents? I face you,                    you face me. So easy for us to... So easy for us to love, but so easy for us to leave. So easy to fight, to wrap our hands                             around each other's throats simultaneously. So easy to embrace, so easy to walk away when you are the west and I am the east. I'll ask you again: Are we lovers or are we opponents? Eyes flit up to the scoreboard, even though                       we don't want to look away from each other. Time: 1 Us: 0 The ball is in no one's court anymore. No more back and forth, stichomythia, repartee. Nor round and                            round when it's all an illusion, isn't it? Don't look. Don't bring it up. Time: 1         Us: 0 The figures are getting bolder, louder than the ticking. Tell me, tell me, before you move to 10 and our angles get skew, tripping over the clock's hands, because we forgot the steps of our dance. Tell me, tell me, what it's like when you see me all the way from number 9 while I'm on number 3. The scoreboard's screeching like a train ready to leave. Time: 1 Us: 0 The audience is already beginning to clap. They have loved us and so have we. We put on quite the show, enough to rival Djokovic or Murray. But neither of us will walk out with gold. Not when we've lost to an abstraction that can swallow us into memories. We get silver medals. Around our necks, choking but we clasp them tightly so they can sparkle on our chests. My silver beams to you,                                            your silver beams to me. On and off, a Morse code speech. When we can't speak,                                        can't breathe, that seems to suffice. Here is a case of beautiful irony: How did we meet? Your eyes                  saw in my eyes                that silver gleam. My eyes                saw in your eyes                  the very same thing. Remember: I face you, you face me. Are we lovers or are we opponents? The scoreboard screams: Time: 1 Us: 0 I bought a watch today, why did I do that? I'm so smart but I'm so stupid. I face you, you face me. It's not an illusion, is it? Look at me. Is it? Time: 1 Us: 0 We're finished. But then how could we have ever won when neither of us knew how to play tennis? We look at each other so the scoreboard can dissolve instead of us. Like your eyes                           in my eyes a tethering glance, could hold us in an eternal position. Like a single look could sustain us stationary. I face you, you                           start to leave. It doesn't matter now. Everything's spilling out on the loudspeaker. (And for once, you don't wish to seek this one truth.) Time: 1 Us: 0 It will always be like this. Time: one. Us: love.
0
Jul 1, 2015
Jul 1, 2015 at 11:37 AM UTC
Game, Set, Match
Time: 1 Us: 0 Will it always be like this? Swinging our racquets at Einstein's illusion. Singing, singing, singing 'Stop the World I Wanna Get Off With You' when nobody hears over the relentless tick-tocks. As      as the clock's hands push          push pull us together, apart. Hey, you. Are we lovers or are we opponents? Let's look at the scoreboard. Time: 1 Us: 0 In school, they taught us perseverance. So we keep dancing, dancing, dancing                                               around the hands of the clock. I'm on number 3 and you face me. What's it like on number 9? What's it like to be on the edge of the next hour, the next day, the next big thing? You're on number 9, I'm on number 3. I face you, you face me. Are we lovers or are we opponents? I face you,                    you face me. So easy for us to... So easy for us to love, but so easy for us to leave. So easy to fight, to wrap our hands                             around each other's throats simultaneously. So easy to embrace, so easy to walk away when you are the west and I am the east. I'll ask you again: Are we lovers or are we opponents? Eyes flit up to the scoreboard, even though                       we don't want to look away from each other. Time: 1 Us: 0 The ball is in no one's court anymore. No more back and forth, stichomythia, repartee. Nor round and                            round when it's all an illusion, isn't it? Don't look. Don't bring it up. Time: 1         Us: 0 The figures are getting bolder, louder than the ticking. Tell me, tell me, before you move to 10 and our angles get skew, tripping over the clock's hands, because we forgot the steps of our dance. Tell me, tell me, what it's like when you see me all the way from number 9 while I'm on number 3. The scoreboard's screeching like a train ready to leave. Time: 1 Us: 0 The audience is already beginning to clap. They have loved us and so have we. We put on quite the show, enough to rival Djokovic or Murray. But neither of us will walk out with gold. Not when we've lost to an abstraction that can swallow us into memories. We get silver medals. Around our necks, choking but we clasp them tightly so they can sparkle on our chests. My silver beams to you,                                            your silver beams to me. On and off, a Morse code speech. When we can't speak,                                        can't breathe, that seems to suffice. Here is a case of beautiful irony: How did we meet? Your eyes                  saw in my eyes                that silver gleam. My eyes                saw in your eyes                  the very same thing. Remember: I face you, you face me. Are we lovers or are we opponents? The scoreboard screams: Time: 1 Us: 0 I bought a watch today, why did I do that? I'm so smart but I'm so stupid. I face you, you face me. It's not an illusion, is it? Look at me. Is it? Time: 1 Us: 0 We're finished. But then how could we have ever won when neither of us knew how to play tennis? We look at each other so the scoreboard can dissolve instead of us. Like your eyes                           in my eyes a tethering glance, could hold us in an eternal position. Like a single look could sustain us stationary. I face you, you                           start to leave. It doesn't matter now. Everything's spilling out on the loudspeaker. (And for once, you don't wish to seek this one truth.) Time: 1 Us: 0 It will always be like this. Time: one. Us: love.
I'm seeing too many loves becoming victims to Time and Distance.
#love#loss#time#score#distance#game#clocks#rivalry#tennis
vamika
Written by
vamika
Jul 1, 2015
Jul 1, 2015 at 11:37 AM UTC
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