I call myself ‘a room with a view.’
It’s locked, and I can’t feel your pain.
“These glasses make you look like a Marxist professor.”
Hmm! I have to read him more but it’s an interesting thought.
I was in mourning last night, and I was thinking about you.
How my body has become used to being alone.
Sometimes, I forget the function of words because I don’t need to use them.
Maybe, I will create a new language and recreate a simulacrum of your body.
An abstraction that’s physicalized with pure love.
If you could just see the wonders of my mind.
I know you wouldn’t want to leave.
But it’s ok — I will love you from a distance.
And this longing will fuel my poetry.
After all, how can you write poetry if you’re satisfied?
It’s true that I’m less miserable but it’s all here in my mind.
I’m still mourning you but I also understand that this poem wouldn’t be possible without your hurt.
I’m gathering it all, and I’m recognizing myself.
The picture is becoming clearer–
I know who this self is as the words manifest themselves.
‘A man who is thankful for unrequited love.’
(c) A.R. Minhas 2020