Letters, Poetry

Le dernier

The last time you were home,
the six walls felt like shelter
in the midst of a hurricane;
we sipped cold coffee
toppling with ice cream,
took out our paint brushes
and instead of the blue galaxy
we dreamt of painting
in a cloth big enough
to hide us from the wars outside,
you drew a picture of me.

The last time I looked at the picture,
I saw myself in red;
did you see the fire inside
that shone on my flesh as well,
or did my love look like the signal
at the traffic in our city,
and you decided to stop,
without a screech.

The last time I met you
in a café across the bookstore,
the one drowning in waves of heritage,
I looked at you with a shield
on my eyes, lest,
lest I might look too deep
into the eyes that I couldn’t unsee.
There was a calm on our table
and laughter loud enough
to shut in all the bombings inside.

The last time I wrote to you,
the letter was left unaddressed.
There are words smudged
in a dark hue of red;
if you would dare to
hold it close enough
it would reek of my blood;
Not of my skin tearing apart
but saffron blood seeping through
decades of wars raged,
into your heart of saffron and sheen.

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