You could have been

You could have been,
The cliche that I blab,
The mirror that stalks me,
The idiocy I'd have gladly suffered,
The brilliance I'd have eternally admired,
The still small voice that peals in my mind,
The smile permanently planted on my face,
The clarity that is conspicuous by its absence now.

You could have been,
The trimness that I so delight in,
The chaos that amenably intrudes,
The serenity in a distant gaze,
Those dreams I rummage through,
The riddle I'd have let you be,
The concealed joy in my bouncy gait,
The interludes of gloom that are indispensable.

You could have been,
A hundred things,
Named and unnamed,
A hundred things,
I'd have wanted you to be,
A hundred things,
You could have chose to be.
The only thing you chose to be,
Is the pain you are.
The only thing I let you be,
Is the pain you are.
And pray don't ask me,
WHY.

SUNdays

This Sunday,
My fingers are immobile,
My limbs are heavy,
My torso is pulled down by my limbs,
My neck is infirm,
And in the head that overlies this neck,
Dumbness prevails.

Lumbering with dumbness,
Dumb with redundancy,
Redundant with emotions,
Emotional without reason,
And there the stream ends,
The stream of my scourge,
The scourge yet unnamed.

Sundays are endless,
So are memories-
That capsize my actions today,
Memories of Sundays,
Of endless laughter,
Of inexhaustible cuddles,
Of the comfort of idleness,
Of protracted play,
Of industrious revisions,
For senseless tests.

Memories of Sundays,
Of long walks,
Of enchanting dinners,
Of interminable phone calls,
And of people,
Who enlivened my Sundays

Today is one,
A Sunday of memories,
Of those on the brink of forgetting those Sundays,
And memories of those ,
Who by virtue of magnanimity or regard,
Or memories,
Created another memory today.