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Anachronistic

It’s almost anachronistic,

Us, in a way,

From the very beginning, isn’t it?

I almost left that apartment on the Seventh Street in Midtown,

The one on the 3rd floor with the dark blue door you adored.

And I did too, for a while,

Until I realised that it was home in some way to me.

And when I came back,

You were there trying to fix your nameplate which kept slanting to the left.

Apparently you arrived just when I left,

But you stayed until I came back.

And then I stayed because you stayed because I stayed?

Something like that!

Then, we kept meeting,

At the right times,

Completely opposite from anachronism,

Until we both left,

Without a warning to each other,

Or a promise to come back,

But a hope that stayed,

With us all the way,

That someday, we’ll meet again.

But, it was anachronistic eventually,

For when I arrived, you weren’t there,

And when you did, I had a reason too.

Maybe the universe kept finding ways,

To put distances between us now,

For we didn’t accept,

How they never existed in the first place.

Anachronistic but not really.

Almost but never.

Stayed but left.

There. Still there.

i surprise myself with my own words sometimes.


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