Undead Love Beyond the Panorama April 14, 2021

Undead Love

Written by Apoorva

Maybe our love wasn’t meant to be this way, 

happy and forever,

We will go to our favorite cafe

on one Friday evening

where we will meet after ages

and order our special

French croissant and chocolate tart.

You would count the grey hair 

on my head and tease me,

but I bet you, you will have more than I.

We will still contemplate,

why tarts come with cutlery.

And I will tell you

how I married a guy who,

listens to the same melodies as you

and sometimes while we 

are making love, how I say your name.

And all we will do is laugh,

While you will slide from your wallet

the picture of a baby girl, your daughter 

whom you named after me.

Maybe one day you will tell her,

how beautiful we were together

and how you watched me,

panicking while eating golgappas

and you stood there in pyjamas.

Maybe one day you will tell her,

Love isn’t the angel in a white dress,

sometimes love is a goofy girl

spilling ice cream on every date.

Maybe one day you will tell her,

how most of the times I would correct your grammar,

even while we had serious fights.

And how love left bits and pieces, 

some tucked under your pillow

some tucked in the corner of your heart.

May be one day you’ll show her,

the stash of poems I wrote for you

which you have hidden in 

that wooden box kept in the attic.

Maybe one day you will also tell her,

how first love isn’t easy to forget

and how some rains still

remind you of me.

On those days maybe she’ll ask you

to show a picture of your love,

and you will pretend to look for one

Because you can’t open your heart anymore.

Maybe on some Sunday afternoon,

you’ll bring her to me.

And on that I will hold her face,

in between my palms, kiss her gently

and look into the beautiful eyes,

Because I know this will be the only way

I will be able to feel you close.

Apoorva Dixit
Apoorva Dixit

Apoorva writes movies and book reviews, poetry that makes you emotional, and her thoughts on society. 

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