The cold cuddles hands inside pockets.
Keys are fiddled with to fill the gaps
between words. She asks him, would
you love me even if I was a man?
His eyebrow lifts, an art gifted by
his aunt. Do you mean to ask me if
I would be gay?. Her grip on the keys
forces pale patches on fingers. No,
She says. That is not what I mean.
What I want to know is if you love me
for who I am on the inside. Are you a
man on the inside. No. Anger swells
to dry like pigeon poop under the sun.
How does it matter? Youre a woman
and I love you.. She tries again, but
do you love me because I am a woman?
Would you rather I love despite it?. You
dont get it. Something fills the eye and
it feels wet. Changing the topic and tone
he mutters I like your earring, it floats.
She grabs the earring (which was
meanwhile in the middle of a conversation
with the wind) and places it in the
deep of his palm. And walks. The earring
and the girl. They fall silent. The boy
with the wind. They wait. Quivering.
Keys fall into the bottomless pit of a
dark womb of the loveless womanly pocket.
(Neha Viswanathan)
20-11-2006 om 19:28
geschreven door stefi 
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fotograffiti
Sara, ik ken je niet maar toch heeft iemand jouw naam voor altijd gekerfd in de schors van deze boom.
...wat rest in de herfst
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