The Last Meeting
I met her for the last time to leave her city and homeland for good and all. A half-broken relationship (outwardly) breathed in our breasts. She had come along other friends to bid me good bye. She was hesitant. I too. A few moments of space and some space for a few moments earned, we looked into each others’ eyes. I wanted to hug. She wanted to hug. The wounded self (Ego) played with us for quite a while. But at last we defeated its game. Her tears on my shoulders did wet my shirt; so was hers with mine. Years have gone, but I still feel my shoulders wet with her tears. A virtual lake of her tears flows on, over and through my shoulders, my heart, my soul. This lake has never dried up. I don’t know how her shoulders, heart and soul feel! What I really know: memories don’t die. Yes, drop by drop falls the venom of memory.
© M. Syre