Sweet Love

"What is love? 'Tis not hereafter;
Present mirth hath present laughter;
What's to come is still unsure;
In delay there lies not plenty;
Then, come kiss me, sweet and twenty,
Youth's a stuff will not endure."

From: O Mistress Mine
- Shakespeare

Picture Imperfect

She was caught unaware as she chanced upon his picture today.
After years of silence, and conversations that happened but didn’t,
After hours of cloaked meaning and naked nuances.

His picture was a shock, an aging, blurring memory brought to life.
She expected a faded recollection, its corners wrinkled.
Instead it was in color. Vibrant. A stamp of not so recent past.

He wore a silly smile like he did when he was having a great time,
He smiled so wide that his eyes would crinkle, with infectious warmth.
It was disquieting to see that smile so perfectly in place.

The goofiness, a testament of seamless movement of time
The picture, a memory from someone else’s scrapbook
Fervently looking to capture that moment again, if only through the lens.

In a picture so imperfect, otherwise, perfect.

Past Loves

After making love, he loved to light up a cigarette
He’d say, “ Lets share this one”. The afternoon
Would glisten, as if it too were shaken.

She loved to take pictures. Mostly of things, of memories
Captured in ambient inanimateness scheme of things. Of vases,
Flowers, sheets and places they had been.

He would pass her notes. Only to see the flush that would
Come on her face. He loved to make her blush and for that,
He would think of a thousand ways.

She secure in the thought of being a goddess to him, would
Still test its strength. And so would innocuously flirt with other men,
Till she saw the flicker of jealousy in him.

He called her his best friend and yet was unnerved
By the unfolding passion. With a present so overwhelming, how does
One judge a future that remains unseen?

She made plans for what lay ahead. A future she saw
With glasses rose tinted. Till she began to question the passion itself,
And what it might have never meant.

Soon they came upon a road forked, of choices divided and futures
Read. He needed time, so decided to pitch a tent. She needing to
Know soon, chose to move ahead.

Many years passed since. And with time and a sepia tint, the romance
A bit jaded. Having decided not to court regret,
Quite not unhappy with what unfolded.

Having never let a thought astray, caught unaware by a bulbous
Afternoon grey. A pause in which they would have ordinarily reflected
On all that is, all that was and obviously not.

But with, a sigh and wisdom new, they now know an aging secret.
Of how a crumpled sheet doesn’t hold memories hidden, its creases
Not the treasure chests of memories for later.

Its contours, not maps of destiny written by the romantics. They just
Mean what they are. Comfort for then, for them. Comfort for that
Moment. And the comfort that comes from sleeping in, a bit longer.