She snubs, ricochets, recoils
like vintage motor’s crank
handle,
Her muttering is like an
argument
where everyone seems right
and wrong at the same
time,
When she fights with him
she seems like a sailor
raising the gangplank
sail out and gone forever,
But she is right there and
her presence
and absence are equally
heavy.
In the transparent silence
of a sheltered cove in his
heart,
she bangs, blasts, booms
and boos
like a militant, atheist
and anarchist,
He on the other hand
is always vexed and
conciliatory,
The cheerings of a
youthful past
try to console him,
As he lapses into glum
reflections,
the memories draw him safe
from the hiccupping scorns
and storms,
He seems festively fried,
cooked, boiled
by the intensity of her
persistent heat,
He walks hollowly with
dreary steps,
But he knows it’s too late
to part ways,
They have shared many
decades,
With disorderly, downcast
endurance
He surlily bears the
nausea of life.
This is the woman I loved,
he wonders,
He can’t hate her
but finds her the most
irritable creature,
She feels the same about
him,
Now he finds her a mere
cranky, villainous
peace-guzzler,
She sees him as the
summary and cause
of all her disappointments
in life.
The domestic air ominously
infuriated,
He just draws inspiration
to life
from a few cuddle-animated
moments
sired by youth’s
pleasure-hunt,
She clings to life
probably because
she still remembers her
dream about a Knight,
Brooding over their morose
consolations,
hard-pressed by time, the
inveterate plunderer,
Bearing time’s hostile,
incessant onslaught,
they draw the essence of
life from stale breath;
from the sweet undertone
of
those initial moments of
pleasure
which were accepted as
love by both.
