Early in the morning, when the alarm rings like a wheezing nun,
I wake up and hasten to hold on to my dream,
There is a hope, that it was important.
That I saw you.
And I liked it.
When the fog sneaks up on me,
When the door in my room creaks open, something threatens to wake me up.
This time, for real.
Food makes it worse.
It’s almost as unforgivable as survival.
When I walk down the road with my eyes downcast,
The occasional chirp of a bird and the lemony leaves above,
Breathe to me, and whisper,
I glance at my mobile,
Dad? Is that you?
The auto jerks the goosebump away.
I forgot your touch again.
Lost in the cold winter breeze.
The auto swerves right.
Your smile. Your eyes.
The ones that never reached me.
The ones I craved.
And craved some more.
Do you know why I crave crabmeat late on a Sunday night?
Do you know why I must taste octopus when no one else wants to?
Do you know why I must always crave?
Because you don’t crave me.
And maybe, you never did.
And because you don’t want to be loved.
You don’t want to be loved by me.