Yet another page turned
in an effort to draw you out,
out of my memory.
Drawing you out of my memory,
is an act of exertion –
takes tiring walks at odd hours of the night
(must it rain or must it not?)
where the tea seller stares in horror at every note exchanged
and despises the smoke of his own cigarettes that he sells –
the high-beamed lights on the highway as witness.
The butcher could go home
rushing off on his scooter,
smoking a cigarette along the way,
and wash the stains off his vest which hides his beef belly;
but the stains that you have painted,
are hard to be washed off,
but only replaced by another.
Will the effort to draw you out,
out of my memory,
go in vain, again?
Will I return to your thoughts reckessly, again?
Find the art here.