remember when we met each other,
we were just children, clothed in college apparel,
braver than we truly were,
thinking we were wiser than our age,
wiser even than our elders,

we called each other names,
working together in things we loved to do,
believing in a cause greater and grander than ourselves,
we felt the joy of being part,
being needed,
contributing for a greater good,
working beyond our mutual irritation
of each other’s existence;

you counted suitors off like fingers,
playing them unknowingly upon your bidding,
i raised my eyebrows at those stupid men,
keeping with my poetry and pen,
i think you scared me into ever giving
those uttered emotions to their intended muses;

you hated me for teasing you,
but you were too finicky for your own good,
and yet, invariably,
the night would not end without me walking you home,
and you would regale me with your tales
of the latest hearts that you trampled,
and i would in turn read my latest composition
and your alternating praise and scorn kept me writing,
but i hated your snobbish nose nevertheless,
and you would call me pathetic and torpe in return;

i do not know when we finally outgrew
those childish chrysalises,
but life called, and we left behind
childish fantasies and ideologies
to march the aisle and receive scrolls
telling the world of our existence,
and we went our own ways for a while,

i don’t remember when we met again,
what day that was, what time, what place,
but i stepped upon your shoe,
and you slapped my face to remind me
of my social graces,
you were still the feisty one,
and shocked, i do not know how i looked that day,
except that all surprise and pain vanished
when i saw your own shocked face,
and we ended up in starbucks
your beige stiletto shoes sullied by my footprint,
my face stinging from your slap,
but both of us laughing,
and that evening i once again took up
that old position, walking you home,
and you asked me to recite my newest poem,
and there and then i made it up,
comparing your eyes to the stars,
and your smile to the night wind,
and your whispered, “you have never written
a poem for me before.”

i wonder why you wondered about it,
when you have been the only one
who have heard each poem of mine;
i have chased around for muses,
and for a single one to finally be my altar,
but all i found were lacking,
and one by one, my opportunities passed me by;
it had to take your slap
to wake me up,
and show me the soul
(so inopportune those years before)
i would finally call home.


One thought on “inopportune

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