Often, you get the worst of me.
The disheveled body
in exercise clothes;
bra-less, and hair unwashed.
My mind,
on the many words
I want to write,
but pulled away
by grocery lists
and meals to cook,
and not able
to pay attention
to your work woes
and stomach ailments.
But you know
that I love you.
You, with your white T-shirts,
always too big for you,
with the loose necks
that peep through your office clothes,
bought by me,
to attempt
a sartorial sense.
And I love
that you leave me alone
to do my thing,
to live my life
the way I want,
even if it means
that you are forced
to deal with the unfamiliar,
without me by your side.
And I love you,
for you are there,
steady, and as before,
when I come back.
And even though
you do not say
the words out loud,
I know how much
you love me
as you struggle
with my bulging suitcases
at the airport,
but, never once,
ask me
to pack light.
***
Madras Courier originally ran as a broadsheet with a poetry section. It was a time when readers felt comfortable sharing glimpses of their lives through verse. If you have a poem you’d like to submit, do email us at [email protected].
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