We hardly said Hello to each other this morning. I served your meal with my eyes filled to the brim with work. I dint pause to see you. You were immersed in your own music and words.
Do these words need line breaks to make it poetry? Do I need you to say ‘I love you’ to know you care? Instead you tell me ‘We’re lobsters’. For now, that’s alright.
Romance is highly over rated, you say. I dream of nights with a twinkle in its eye, soft rain coaxing the soil to give up its earthy tones to the air, cheese and wine and chocolates and flowers and suprises, all that is promoted to speak the language of love. But, I’d forget all that for a cuddle. You know.
We play games. Our favourites are who is the bigger victim? Who is important? Who works harder? Who aches more? Who hurt whom? Is patriarchy or feminism worse? It is only in few moments of being, we know, the games don’t matter, neither of us are victims, we shape memories together. That’s all we do. Do you want to do that tomorrow too?
I would like to do better. For you. For us. For them. But, I sink with these dreams, and surface with angst. I am a rubber band, stretched taut. Are you too? Some others, seem to be perfect. They radiate infinite energy, a sort of determination. Me and you are finite. We tire. We laze. We fail.
We put one step in front of another. We are lobsters, holding on, cuddling, rhyming, shaping memories. Today. Tomorrow. Don’t care about the end, now.