The early morning sunshine and you with your milk coffee—a vignette not quite for me,
I’m made of bittersweet black coffees
and late night film-watching sprees.
Dark skin, darker chocolates
and even darker dreams,
don’t really fit in the whiteness of your New York City penthouse dream.
And you with your love for neon signs,
forever oblivious to my trust in the night,
with your earphone music in your
tubelit office at midday never noticing the green garden below,
with your obsession with edges
and all the while I keep falling off them
with your sense of incredulity about my
daily contentment derived from a sunset behind cloudy mountains
with your mania for store bought yogurt
when I taught you how to curdle milk at home
with your compulsive notion of enforcing boundaries
while talking about breaking mine.
So, when I think of what it is I fell in love with
was it your light brown eyes that appeared a little skeptical in the cafeteria light
the (deliberately) unsure way you touched your perfect hair,
my misinterpretation of your confession for the starlit sky
your love was of the patches seen through windows
and in between concrete jungles?
You knew and I now see,
our love was doomed from the beginning
hate the pause of journey in between two cities,
the loneliness which you must fill with parties,
hate my bougainvillea filled balcony and
the occasional worms that crawl out singing,
You hate the sense of comings and goings
and that is the
I exist in.