Once in a while, I used to
visit the cemetery.

We would hold hands,
and barge around in plump happy faces.

you would spend the afternoon smiling to my gibberish;
and by dusk,
I shall be swimming in your mermaid eyes.

Seething were our veins;
preaching poetry and scripts.
The cotton clouds; floating amongst your ocean blue—
and you my unknown muse.

Once in a month, I used to
visit the cemetery.

We would have silently raged;
you would have blackmailed my young ego,
into bringing along, the Kodak Ek-100.

Still I took your photograph,
that angry face brought me a secret smile.

After I had it washed;
to my dismay, you’d be disappointed still
at how I was a charlatan;
who had deceived the snow white of our times.

and then shoot me off a playful side eye;
and laugh away at the distance.

Once in a week, I used to
visit the cemetery.

It would be a windy day,
we would sit around,
and look for the people who had come to mourn;
garlands of roses and asters
rolling among the dancing blades of morning grass.

I would grasp your palm in mine;
my fingers would shake for a while
like I had Parkinson's.

We would have a cup of cardamom tea,
in company
of the old Janitor.

Often, now
I visit the cemetery.

the new janitor asks me,
who do I wait for
as I silently walk by

I look at your tombstone,
the stale flowers scattered around,
with shaking palms—
like I had Parkinson's;

strolling around for hours to dusk
and wonder if I could tell someone our story.