Waiting

2025-09-13

People drift. Love leaves home. Life becomes a refugee. We become migrants in our own cities. What brought two people together often becomes the reason which tears them apart. Poetry is often a glue, often it it only a record-keeper. Often it is a bystander, checking out its own pulse. And the two who loved how poetry defined them, find the suburbs of love - where they finally have to settle - to be boring brick-laden homestays. So much of love - as of life - are the boring intermezzos. When definitions of everything get recreated in...

People drift.

Love leaves home. Life becomes a refugee. We become migrants in our own cities.

What brought two people together often becomes the reason which tears them apart.

Poetry is often a glue, often it it only a record-keeper. Often it is a bystander, checking out its own pulse.

And the two who loved how poetry defined them, find the suburbs of love - where they finally have to settle - to be boring brick-laden homestays.

So much of love - as of life - are the boring intermezzos. When definitions of everything get recreated inside endless vistas of nothingness.

What survives is cacti, or becomes prickly like it. Our best selves dry out. And we become our worst versions.

We are very rarely sensitive enough to know how we have regressed, how we have devolved. We see our sunburnt smiling faces in the mirror, and then go cursing into the arena of life, desperate for distraction, despairing to know where we'd gone wrong.

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