The Last Ballad

I'm not sure about this. But the words that might follow may jeopardize that fate of all those that aren't conceived yet in my mind, this I know.

When you have been shut for a while, enough people have tried the same question and forgot about it, you're nothing more than a dam. But sometimes my words spill secrets in poems and stories I write. And a question always follows it, "Was that about her?"

Like a bird which searches for a dry straw to make its nest, I would often look deep into my longings for words, the ones that would singe my throat as it came out. But what burnt the most was the question that followed, "Was that about her?" I mean, how can my deepest longings have a 'her' in it. I would treat the question with utmost disrespect. The disparity between words and actions was clear but I would escape for another day.

The truth was, or is, that my deepest feelings had a soul and one that of a hurt girl. "Was that about her?" I really don't know who you are talking about, the one you see now or the one I threw in front of the truck. So I write poems and stories remorseful of the grievous act. And you guys ask me the question, "Was that about her?"

Some nights I wonder thinking how our paths met, how that day transverse into reality. And what baffles me the most is how I stood there when I first saw you. Why? Because I was a boy then! And surely didn't have a clue about love. But my dear, that moment was destiny's golden hour, in my life at least. And neither of us were prepared for it.

Do you still look away when someone takes your picture? Or seem disinterested when someone you are not sure about walks into your group? Defensive mechanism! Now I know it, but I was only a boy then! Smitten by an unknown feeling as teenage knocked on the door.

 

 

And when that day finally came when you could look at me like I looked at you for the first time, we were miles apart, 2712 kms to be exact. And for the first time it was more than just numbers. Then we met, if there was a slow motion camera back then I could have seen you passing in front of my eyes. But I had E63 back then. Yet I made myself believe I saw you.

We were out there in the cold for long, so my hands stretched for the warmth of your embrace. But dear, I was burnt by the torrent of tears that rolled down your cheeks when I was about to leave. St Jude's church, earth and the blue skies stood as witness. Like lava it burns my heart every time I pass the church road.

 Or that night! Yes, that night. How many people would have taken heed to a gentle whisper over something that may not happen again in life. I did! And sometimes I wish to believe that I misread the signs, that it was a test I failed. But then my guilt would be so much that I would soon take an U turn, pat on my back and say "Bravo! You did many people wouldn't" And for that fleeting moment I feel okay.

See, I don't write about you or those finite days we cherished. Yet, even as I update my blog about another travel experience people ask me the same question, "Was that about her?"

I always wished I wrote about you. So here I'm! Hoping for words to find me for once that I could write a final poem for you. But as I seek for words, silence embraces me and in that silence I look at the poems and stories I've ever written. They were right all along, it was all about her. And it scares me, if my deepest longings gave me words and if I'm about to write the last ballad, what do I've left to write?

So I'll deny the question again, and again. And I'll deny till judgement day for it isn't worth accepting before that. Or even after that!