Lovers' Spat

We don't know why lovers return gifts, of what use is a scarf to him. The one that was bought on his travels, of hand-painted flowers in full bloom. Or a book to her, of a poet that has a poem with a phrase that he used to describe her. Or that earring that even she confessed looks just as lovely on her ears. And she never found herself quite so lovely as she did with him.

This returning of gifts, does it really serve the purpose. For there is that silly summer T-shirt that was worn for an even sillier movie. And his hand rode up her back in that. Does one return that too? Or the shirt that she liked him in or the top that revealed more than it concealed and she could wear only with him around. Does one return that as well?

Take the seat on the train too that she sat on and dreamt of him. And that bit of a building and that elevator and that corner of the street. His contact card too, maybe, for it pops up while cleaning out an old bag. Or the number of a hotel where he stayed when they talked for four hours into the night, and when she called him several times to awake him from a slumber. His voice laden with sleep, are you asleep, she would ask. No, he would always reply, just dreaming of you and hoping you will call. Words of lovers. And that was all the encouragement one needs, and she would jabber on about the day, his love and their dreams.

And the most difficult of all, a set of poems all written for her, when there was a lover's quarrel. All that speak of yearning and misery. As there is no bigger misery than the misery of yearning. Of what use would it be to the other. Take that as well and this and some of that. And when you are done with taking, come back and return my heart.

For you have a bit of it, which I am afraid, will never quite as well again.