It’s blooming outside, my youngest runs circles around me,
as I clean my almirah,
I open the bottom drawer, and among the bric-a-brac,
odd bits and ends that require to be sorted, dusted, disposed or organised
A glint of metal catches my eye.
You sat there at the edge of my bed in my mother’s house,
wearing your faded unwashed jeans, harmonica in hand,
Trying out yet another new tune,
and with each note that danced between you and me,
I fell a bit deeper in love with you.
How I then declared that I would love you forever,
and how all I have now for you is a spare thought every year or two
Why didn’t that moment freeze?
What tune do you try now and to whom?
I have walked away for too long, and now the drawer is (wiped) clean
I place the harmonica in a corner and close that chapter
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