For love didn’t have anything to offer
I did not wait for a return, instead
I walked back to the memory, its exact
lanes, revisiting the very traces.
You tried to break what’s already broken
Almost real, this conjured wistfulness
I have played and lost these games too often
Clichéd moves, measured disappearances.
Repeating the steps makes it trivial
The same tables laid across the same street
Not a dream, but a bitter taste, almost stale
This reality, in all its lightness.
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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