rain come down, forgive this dirty town

one day from paris she texted me thanking and saying she was listening to the music I gave her and how much she enjoyed it.

Mama’s been on my mind all week – Perhaps a chance encounter? Pray for a conversation. So much to say, so much to save

is it worth it? for whom?

Her memories return, if not by the minute then by the hour. In fact they have never left. Not a single day has passed by without her creeping into my thoughts; sometimes she’s smiling, sometimes she is joking, sometimes she is mocking and laughing but mostly I recall the image of her crying and rightfully accusing me of making her life miserable.

Truth: I did, but the moment the tears started rolling down her cheeks, I realized, held her, begged her for fogiveness. She did, at least I think She did.

Fool I was am. I did her wrong.

I moved away, literally and geographically.

Today, I chanced upon some pictures of her while we were Skyping. I tasted salt.

I want to say sorry, I am not wishing her back, but I would just want to tell her how sorry and miserable I was. To her, to me and what could have been something else.

The pictures still keep playing but the music that plays along with it is wrong. There are sobs and sniffles that can be heard which are, for once, not her’s but mine.

I am sorry.

all you got to do is find the person right

what happens when the person is wrong

can you still write a love song?

woman, be her single, hitched or married

is a force not to be reckoned with

flowers, chocolates, a diamond ring

she will gladly accept but not sing

you talk, you tell, you profess

you cry, you beg and confess

for her heart where your love was born

is now all dry and torn, an orphan

drench yourself in wine whiskey or beer

nothing’s going to wipe away that tear

you wish your heart was like her’s

because you know you cant live without hers

this poem is kinda lame

wrote this so I can erase the blame

one day, once chance, to say sorry and ask for forgiveness

will you bestow that upon me, say you are forgiven, yes?

And then there is me (us) who put on the armour and go in search of saving damsels in distress. We do.

Something happens, the knight who was supposed to save, saves and then turns predator.

Is it possible that Quixote could have been bitten by the dreaded bug insecurity? Or is it a curse to the impersonators?

How come she knows everything? They know what I should wear, what I should eat, drink; come to think about it I am pretty darned sure that there has been a mention, you know the nudge nudge wink wink, of what, who and where I should open my mouth. Don’t get me started on what she thinks about what and how I should feel (ok, am talking to self here but hey don’t be too quick to judge, it’s happened to you too and if you say no then you know who you are, a liar)

The “she” here is not just the woman I am with now but I the women (non-familial) whom I have have the remotest of contact with, be it a woman I fell hard and deep (and god knows into what), had a crush on, just been friends, you know the different scenarios possible, right?

But seriously! A casual remark or a slight mention of things, and the woman lying next to me, stark naked, still looking for a tissue, can think of the other women that she knows that I would be perfect for!

OK! I must be too afraid to dive deep or maybe she has enough depth that a sequel to “The Deep” was planned and promptly dropped after the producer explored this one’s depth?!

Coming back to the poor referrals (I mean poor emphatically) doesn’t that  make you think that the woman I was with hated the women that she mentioned were right for me? Some school or college envy that fits perfectly with their vengeance for me?

Or could she be just faking it?

Is it what women know, or is it what woman want?

On a different note, have you ever met an oddly enough writer? The kicks the writers must be getting,  fun place to work,  no?