I’d live the pretence
Of having been ditched
For someone far more charming than me – I’d be the image of
Sisyphus rolling the hopeless rock, done in for loving too much.
I would love to dream of being cheated upon –
Wallowing in self-pity would just be my thing.
I’d listen to long songs, donning a longer face –
I’d roam damned.
I’d never let time, the infamous thickener of things, thicken my share of misery – I’d be invariably miffed –
I’d be the one looking, as if, crying from within – I’d make a living out of looking sad. That’ll be my forte. I’d love to bear the cross – I’d be honoured to have killed the bird.
I’d find ways.
The smouldering sugarcane fields, will not fail to evoke in me, feelings most literary – the stinking spectacle would surely find a fine metaphor.
I’d write mediocre poems.
I’d look for mirrors – in rivers, in window-panes – of buses, trains. I will never go out in rain. I’d search for answers. I’d play the despairing detective. I’d never solve the case.
I’d live in clichés.
