Coming back to the town alone
where we lived,
Was not what I looked forward to.
The sight of
that small cottage,
that narrow passage over the
drain,
And the one single room that
housed her,
and the unkempt garden,
Were all surviving like stand alone
units,
no longer connected,
and no longer
belonging to each other.
The clothes lines were empty
as she took away all those
little nothings with her,
as we had moved out of
that town.
Now, after years of writing our
stories, and reading them again
and again,
When I look at these
abandoned feelings and streets,
I wonder if I was wrong
in thinking that it has ended,
or is it just another beginning
to it?
Otherwise, what the God
Am I doing here?
