- Vol. 03
- Chapter 06
I was trying to say to you that I was worried about forgetting you. You looked puzzled with your fingers on your bottom lip. I should have asked you if it happens to you. Does it? (Your father sitting at his favourite place by the window in the pub.) I live with the fear of faces being papered over diligently, quickly. Cigarette thin paper Layers upon layers of it once I turn my gaze away Even when I try to concentrate with all my might Then again there are times that there is a tear, a tiny drop An image peers through the opaqueness My grandmother is holding her big tailor's scissors cutting her finger nails Big hands wrinkled on the outside, soft, very soft on the inside that held my own little ones for years Other times I fall asleep on all these layers of paper There is a dribble from the corner of my mouth The wetness reveals his calloused thumb, index and middle finger Rather than his face when he kissed me secretly under the thick leaves where we sheltered from the rain
ForgettingHe wrote a lot Irrespective of the layers like the books stacked up high on my bedside There is her who said: I don't want to be forgotten Not by you
Her cigarette ash burns the paper She still sits on her favourite chair Her hands reaching out to put out one more cigarette in the stone astray She picks up her cigarette packet and frowns behind the glasses to focus on reading to me what she scribbled on it earlier about the poem she has just read.