We are what we have always been
And tonight we meet years from when
For the last time I had your coyness seen
And had decided never ever to see you coy again.
But, then, here we are, surrounded by ferns
And relatives — old bones and damsels in distress —
Taking, with their welcome drinks, by turns
The gossip: they who meet at weddings; funerals.
You who, years ago, made fun to me about the bride
In a way of wading off my interest in you,
In an age where I saw my foolish dreams true and tied
And bound in times all equal to the times I did woo
You — and those times were plenty, and those times
were sweet, untouched by scorn, futility; until, way on,
You let the futile attempts to roll off the rhymes,
But to move on and let go, the very way that you’d gone.
But, you’re back and among gaudy cousins,
Whose bawd-like make up and boisterous laughter contrast
The self-contained beauty in you, which made musings
That were never turned to poetry, cos poetry wouldn’t last.
Coy and kept, there, by a man whose suit’s too big,
— Which a weird wardrobe would be, if borrowed robes I wore —
I reminisce of countless days spent in your love to rig
And of sms-es you showed me where he called you whore.