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He says
He was a flirt
telling jokingly
to girls he loved them
could not make any
binding contracts
And he always got away
with his histrionic gestures
Until he met me
To whom
He never used
those three words
those three words
He says all this
to me; to one
who has learnt
to mistrust
but somewhere
at some point
I began to trust
that he is
remotely serious
I sit and listen
to him
talk for hours.
And as he speaks-
I focus on his words
And the way his mouth
makes those sounds.
I know I’m not
meeting his eyes
meeting his eyes
and he can tell I’m staring
and he humors me
relentlessly
and we pretend
we are having
a casual talk.
The percussion of his
lips and teeth
the piano strings
of his tongue
the squeak of the wind
escaping the corners of his mouth
take their turns
sounding out
sounding out
and somehow their music
turns into thoughts
and ideas
and feelings.
I do speak sometimes
But he lets my words
To be few
and eventually I learn
to appreciate and listen.
His wild talk
sometimes puts me into ennui
sometimes takes me with it
on gentle waves of reassurance
that blows the winds of change my way
and all my fears unwind
until I learn-
I am not alone!
