Wanting to know isn’t the same
as hearing the answer
spoken on your lips, parting to reveal the crooked teeth
I hadn’t noticed earlier
Melancholy strains were playing at the beginning
as your tortured visage
attempted to beat out the bad
with meagre strains of Debussey
Laughing until it hurt, rolling around
on the scratched wood floors
and hoping all the bubbling of mirth
was a never-ending chain of bliss
The eye cannot see what it does not want to.
As inadequate as disappointment is
conjuring trumped up dreams
It seems the gods are laughing at this moment
to tell me what I could not see
in every glance
every note sung
and every key struck:
there wasn’t any chance you would have stayed.
--Anjali Sen
© 2011
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