As the sun and the moon go about their daily business of rising and falling,
My activity of remembering you has coincided with the demands of living so fittingly,
The ray of sunshine that is the last to disappear most resembles the colour of the shirt you would have worn tomorrow
The finishing, creased tube of toothpaste would have caused your existential crisis of today.
My insistence on missing the gaps between seconds, which would materialize in used batteries and unwound clocks, would have spoilt your schedule
My remembering of you is the layers of dust on your box of memories,
There is no getting to the bottom of it.
The coffee stain on the floor from the day we pretended to be stars in a café, cannot be washed
(The healing of some scars demands the tearing off of skin
Inch by inch)
I painted the floor silver
(And then you find it in your bones)
The bus that I skip to walk to work has the same number of passengers as the pools of honesty in your eyes
My pile of books on oblivion would have interrupted your daily reading of newspapers
I forget sometimes that my remembering of you as the autumns and springs go about their business of falling and rising,
Has mingled with the demands of living so fittingly
That I forget it is you I remember,
That now when I touch old jackets and open umbrellas,
My memory of you forgets you in so many ways
That I only remember you on the third Tuesday of every month now
*The title of the poem has been borrowed from “Tonight I can Write the Saddest Lines” by Pablo Neruda. You can read it here.