Pushing
This need to keep asking, checking
An incessant hammering of irascible ‘me…me…me’
Like a ringtone that cajoles its way into a dream, confusing it
Dishevelling an already corrupt narrative. It’s not good.
Questions should only want answers if they are ready to find out.
When you ask me if I love you, you reduce it to a moment. Don’t.
Let the sentimentality of it all blow away with the smoke of your eyeliner
The remnants will be the perfume of my affection, distilled, clear. Matter of fact.
He used to ask me too. If I loved him.
What a time-bound query. Like it had a deadline.
I mean, it did.
And yet, when he did, I always found the will to say, ‘of course’.
Of course! Of course! Oh, God, of course! And how!
What drive, what surge, what pleasure in admitting the guilt of falling (in love, not out of it)
And yet, (and I know), when I will,
You will look down and then to your left,
And pull your mouth into that quasi-mean slit.
The dialogue box above your wonderfully placid face will cryptically declare: …‘course.’
I will still ask.
