My Half, Your Year

This isn’t love.

It’s not nostalgia.

It’s not even sadness;

It’s observation.

A day in the life,

A stamp on the letter,

A circled day on the calendar

Conveniently paired with another occasion

To mask the bigger meaning.

But then, it doesn’t mean anything,

At least not to you.

You weren’t the one who stayed up

Replaying bliss in your head

With that dopey smile screwed on,

Only to have it wrenched off

By the lovely assistant

You kept hidden during your magic act.

By rule of thumb,

Should not she be boxed and pierced by knives?

Though she must have been eventually,

As now I sit with her in the audience,

Watching your life in pictures

Because you never bothered

To say goodbye.

(In a year’s time.)

It’s still not love.

Still not nostalgia.

It’s not regret.

It’s merely a memory

That I have the misfortune to keep.

It’s karma,

Sealed with a kiss.