Tomorrow

Nostalgia, that old mistress of memory, has setup court in the musty corridors of my mind. Today she smokes a cigar of my lost worlds, filled with familiar words and smells. Every puff brings the numerous kingdoms of my life, alive, in ethereal castles of smoke. "Do you want to rule as a God today?," she asks. "Or would you rather lie helpless in her arms again?" And I remember.

Oh my God, what arms. What arms...

Having lived on fine blurry line that defines the boundary between picture postcards and reality for sometime now, I am definitely taking the road back tomorrow. My memory is conspiring against me again, reluctant to let go of what is familiar and afraid to lose the defining forte of one's self in the tempestuous vicissitudes of time.

Oh my God, what times. What times...

As my present bitches about my past, future me is smiling a smug smile that follows a satisfying shag. The cat lies unperturbed, curled up on the carpet, ignoring my attempts at intellectual suicide with a panache that would do Murakami proud. A perfectly shaped slice of bread, freshly toasted to a crisp golden brown, glistening with smeared on melting butter and a dash of ground black pepper. Can you smell that on a bright, sunny morning? Tomorrow still holds that promise.

I am coming home.

What was left of it

She crumbled in his arms
like paper to flame
I found the ash, next day,
strewn on the floor

or what was left of it.

---

She drowned in his eyes
like laughter in gunfire
I found the empty cartridges, the day after,
littered on the floor

or what was left of it.

---

She whimpered at his touch
like the dumb being whipped
I found the blood stains, a day later,
sprayed on the floor

or what was left of it.

---

She moaned in his wake
like an orphaned, hungry mongrel
I found the cries, everyday,
cemented to the floor

or what was left of it.