Loving her didn’t come in pieces,
And neither did it come as a whole,
It was as if she gave you a whole of
The different parts in which she had
Divided herself, her soul, into. The sole
Pure face she ever kept to herself was
Like a deck of cards cased to form a portrait
Of beauty in imperfect symmetry; only, if you
Moved one card, the whole picture would
Change, not because it was faulty, or because
It would fall, no; but because it would become a story
From another puzzle of hers which was
Stronger, harder, braver- but what mattered
To you would disappear because the grid
Of complexity which you were trying to
Solve would never be the same; she for you
Would never be the same. Loving her wasn’t
Hard, or easy, but once you loved her,
You would realise it was only a strand,
A nerve, a cell, of her being that you fell for;
It was like reading a single verse of a poem
Whose title seemed interesting, and when
You understood that one verse, your thirst to
Be gratified was quenched- but then you
Would turn the page and all your realisation
Would have to take a back seat because the
Realisation you made was incomplete, and
After another page there was another and
When you thought you had finally understood
The curves, and the edges of the words written,
The words would change, and the ink blotted
Across the pages would switch colours, and
The poem would always be left to be a mystery
Which you thought could be solved, but it was
Too intimidating; she for you was the only
Verse in your poem, but you couldn’t read her
Or her mystery because you were stuck in the
Moves and turns she defined, as she moved,
Into words that would play with your pen; words
Which once you saw would never let themselves
Retreat, or repeat. Loving her was not beautiful
And it was not ugly, because once you got a
Hold of the way she lived, and the way she
Tackled the skin of her body, and the skin of
Those she loved, and the skin of those who you
Thought didn’t matter, it was wondrous, enchanting
And sweet, but somewhere near that was a frost
Bite which bit her very soul, but her soul did
Not bleed; and you could never guess if her
Blood was red, blue, green or grey; or maybe
She did bleed, and maybe the colour was invisible
To those eyes that wanted to see, or maybe her
Blood spilled ink on the pages of her diary, or
Maybe it bled in the blue pacific ocean when
The hurricanes came and you thought it was
The moon and its tides to blame, or maybe her
Blood was nothing out of the ordinary, and maybe
She did bleed when you were hearing the way she
Smiled when her own touch bid her goodbye, and
When her own skin washed away where you touched
It, when she dusted off the dust on your summer
Coat, and flew it away with the breeze when it came,
But you will never know because loving her was
Like choking on someone else’s lies, because she
Would never tell you how or when or where she dies,
Because she knew, and she told you too, so that you
Would forever search for the date, the place, the time
Where she said she would wait for you to come; but
You’d be late; you know too, and you know you will
Look for her even at the very last seconds of your life,
Because you would give it for hers, wouldn’t you?
Because she was worth it all, wasn’t she?
Only if you knew while she was still alive; she had diverted
And flooded what you thought was the safest,
But she saved you from herself, isn’t that enough,
Now that you can never see her again?
