They called you singular, they also considered you plural. They knew nothing. They often asked me who you are. Not that I knew, or know. Maybe you are mad. Mad because without you, sanity makes no sense. Mad, because all that is glorious and then sets to rust, do against you. You and I, go hand in hand, and everything in between -- a tiff too many, a soft touch of the lips, a lie, lovers.
Let us go then, You and I. No, not to poetic anaesthecized tables, but to bland riversides instead, on equally ordinary evenings, and bloom it into a special one with each other beside. Some tales we will tell, some desires we will trace, some leisurely cups of tea have. We shall not indulge in the complex counting of lifetimes in coffeespoons around sultry afternoons. Just You, just Me. We shall unearth the river.
How would it be, to uncover it? To rediscover its flow? May be we will find kingdoms of Us in it, from a long forgotten Yesterday. May be we will be together called Mad. Perhaps we are. Why else would this be a story? A story about You? Of young green leaves travelling in autumn air, when auburn ones are laden on the roads? You, in your smoky, rusty, classicism of neo-nowness.
They asked me about You, you know. I had nothing much to convey. I tried though. They only understood tickets and berths and reservations when I spoke of travels. I tried telling them of you in waves and heights and cobbled streets. They asked me of cuisines and cultures. I paused. I stopped. There was no point. They would never understand me. Because they never understood You, the Story.
Let us go then, You and I. No, not to poetic anaesthecized tables, but to bland riversides instead, on equally ordinary evenings, and bloom it into a special one with each other beside. Some tales we will tell, some desires we will trace, some leisurely cups of tea have. We shall not indulge in the complex counting of lifetimes in coffeespoons around sultry afternoons. Just You, just Me. We shall unearth the river.
How would it be, to uncover it? To rediscover its flow? May be we will find kingdoms of Us in it, from a long forgotten Yesterday. May be we will be together called Mad. Perhaps we are. Why else would this be a story? A story about You? Of young green leaves travelling in autumn air, when auburn ones are laden on the roads? You, in your smoky, rusty, classicism of neo-nowness.
They asked me about You, you know. I had nothing much to convey. I tried though. They only understood tickets and berths and reservations when I spoke of travels. I tried telling them of you in waves and heights and cobbled streets. They asked me of cuisines and cultures. I paused. I stopped. There was no point. They would never understand me. Because they never understood You, the Story.
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