Night creeps slowly in, easing through melted walls, where random trysts quiver under a silver moon.
Numberless promises, oaths taken, vows made only to be shattered, into slivers of trust, with each sliver swirling down, into gutters filled with unheard cries.
Keeping your eyes open, wishing you were less pliant, knowing that history rests on the other side, where emotions are weapons, where words are knives, and soft caresses can wound, where kisses can suffocate, where every dark shadow conjures up a melody woefully out of tune.
A life in limbo, walking forward into a past of regrets, fleeing the now while sipping on a bruised lip, draining foul images, wiping away lingering doubts, as you try to shriek, hearing all nostalgia being snuffed out, rattled by an exhausted love, no longer tender whispers, more often than not vile disfiguring shouts.
Enough of self-pity, to hell with introspection, be gone idle moments, mute nights, tear-stained pillows, banishing it all to the other side, while reclaiming what you once were deep inside, innocent and true, naïve as ever, when starry-eyed you listened, believed, all his promises that love would last forever.
Remember who that was, that brave question, that sure answer, remember that wide-eyed traveller, that willing listener, remember the smiling reflection in the mirror, once free of pain, of gloom.
Remember who you were, to become who you must be,
and avert an imminent fast-approaching doom
Afzal Moolla was born in Delhi, India while his South African parents were in exile, engaged in the struggle against Apartheid in South Africa. He travelled wherever his parent's work took them. Afzal now works and lives in Johannesburg, South Africa and shares his literary musings with his most strident critic -- his 14 year old cat.