So must I write a poem every time you leave me,
every time you go and leave me behind?
For this would leave me wordless,
as our partings are too numerous, too long,
and our natural destiny, it seems.
Must I write a poem every time the hour fades
into longing, with silence marching in
as your steps fade way, each fading step
in step with each silence that each step
I cannot leave our meetings to serendipity.
I do not trust chance encounters outside sad cafes,
your hair astray and my fists shackled,
you lost in reading a poem
and I lost in my loss.
There is no meaning in suffering. Try remembering
what has happened and the flowing tides of time
will stop. Then other lovers will resume their trysts,
suns will set, the time to part will come for others
too, but my loss is mine alone.
I must learn to trace my words in the shadowy
shadows of the moon or the henna that has dried
on your palms. I must try trusting fortune tellers
and hope that the sun that has set and the moon
that stung have not done so in vain.