March 17th

“Once, I wrote a poem about you.
I write it smaller and smaller every day.

One of us is vanishing into the distance.”
-Daphne Gottlieb
I am known for my
inconsistency and capriciousness. I leave men at altars and send poetry as an
apology. It is what they want after all. I had to learn this the hard way. The
desire to kiss me is only an urge to be closer to poetry. I say
“only” because proximity is not enough for poetry to thrive. They
launch an inquiry in the depths of my throat in an effort to find my soul. And
then it begins “am I the one?” “Am I your muse” “Am I
the best you’ve ever had” my response is sought after, not for my praise
but for their own. They will go back to the herd and say they invoked such
My words are a
trophy. And I am fine with that. The true test of my feelings is giving away
that trophy. But although words may be immortalised in ink, feelings are not
for they do not remain constant. How I felt at 18 isn’t how I feel now:

“You don’t
mean to me what you once did. The version of me that loved a version of you is

I say this to
myself whenever I am face to face with you. What I really want to say:

“How do you do
it? How do you make me believe you missed me for 6 months with no calls or
messages to show for it?”

To that you ask the
same question. How do I do it? How do I stay silent for just as long? But am I?
Am I silent?

My lips speak of
you whenever another kisses them. My words carry your syllables, initials and
mark. You are not forgotten. But maybe you should be.

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