LOVE Poem: WINTER, by Vishaal

Is gone.

She was probably on her way out, even, the many times you chose to ignore the raging fire behind her thinly-veiled mist. Who could’ve thought?

Who could’ve thought that of what you thought was likely a storm that would pass with the night, clear up by the crack of the dawn, would leave no trace of her by morning?

‘Let bygones be bygones,’ some say. But hard though it is to not reminisce about your times together; hard – to just give in to it like that. You sift through the memories and latch on to the bad ones; admittedly, there weren’t many of the other kind.

‘Aargh!’ you scream in frustration, ‘God!’

She was not so very unlike this immature lover who after one ill-fated fight, barges into the attic, then struts her suitcase half-open through the hallway and across a crowded room to hastily throw in all her things – postcards, sea-shells, clothes neatly folded and never used. Then crouches on the sofa, sniffling all night while you slept, convinced it would all be fine the next morn.

She chose to leave you in the hands of a reckless Summer, just – “and hear me out”, you plead – because this one time, you mumbled something somewhere about warmth and the Sun, and were caught grumbling about her cold and the many layers. She thought it was only befitting to leave you in the confines of someone you remembered only fondly. Here you are again, in the grip of this familiar comfort of – who as it happens to be right now – is smiling and shining and thawing your stone heart. But soon – soon enough – this comfort will begin to scorch the soles of your feet as you scamper around to find the whereabouts of the former.

The barren, arid crust of your heart cannot quench its soul with the rising ocean at bay. Perhaps, she was insecure. Perchance, she thought she possessed not the many charms of the Spring or the faint colours of Autumn, or suspected you were crushing on the Rains. She no longer thinks of you, did not even leave a note, let alone return your calls, but you keep trying. When you finally get a hold of her, she whimpers through the static on her end. You reason. You argue. You try to negotiate.

“But you don’t even like me!?” she sobs quietly.

“It’s – it’s not that,” you sigh, “just – just not the way you are, alright?”

The line drops dead before you can relent. Perhaps, she’s finally learnt of your devious record as a lover – that you are no better, just bitter kettle calling the pot black. That you’re just seething to stay afloat in a sea of her tears.