Collection of Recollections, Part V: Inebriated

Wednesday, August 10, 2016 Comments Off

I have been denied
touches,
sighs,
whispers,
inside jokes,
shared intimacy
for far, far too long—
that a momentary glance,
unsavoury touches,
drunken exchanges
felt like
acceptance, acknowledgement,
and
kindness
dejected and intoxicated note of a twenty two years old

it was another saturday night spent with overflowing red and pink drinks, and a lovely company. it was different this time around, maybe since it was nearing the famous february fourteenth, or maybe the bartender actually had a mind reading ability, but he managed to perfectly created two powerful potions that suited us both that were decorated with roses and seahorses: the embodiment of our most beloved love stories. or perhaps the universe has a funny way of telling me that i could only find romantic endeavour in the shape of something inanimate. though i have to say, if romantic love tasted like that, i wouldn't mind drinking it all in one single gulp. come to think of it, maybe that is the only way i can taste romantic love on my lips: bittersweet, in an alluring packaging, and made me feel heady, lightheaded and honest. it made me want to just be wrapped in the warmth of someone that's true, strong, and steady. — roses and seahorses


what you seek
cannot be found at the end
of
a wine bottle, or
his smirk, or
the smallest circumference of your waist, or
payment check, or
romantic novel, or
your favourite flower's bud, or
mariana trench, or
this sentence.
it is inside you
all along  camouflaged

we, he said. as if it meant anything anymore. as if it was a currency that could be used in this conversation. it cringed me how much that word became irrelevant to my ears. years had passed without me finding the need to use that particular word when i explain anything related to me and him. it was buried underneath all the fossils of our mementos. no longer was it put on pedestal for everyone to see; it did not bloom the way it was during his regimen in my heart. it was effectively dead. he grimaced when i denied the existence of it, of an exclusivity that two people had established. there was nothing more and nothing less about it. why bringing up the dead? i urged him to drown it, drown everything, sink the mothership with a touch of ice and a whole bottle of whiskey. burn the word, set it aflame until it was nothing but the ashes of your cigar. bury it, entomb it unmarked so there was no remembrance of the word, we lost, and remain as such

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