I wanted to write you a poem that is free — free of all memory trails of me. I wanted the conception of these lines to embody the muted tones of untouched enamel whites, as pure as your tender half-awake eyes and groggy groans that see the alarm going off at 7:30am. I wanted to write you a poem that is free of the tear drop that once rolled down my grandmother’s cheek, onto my father’s cheek, onto my cheek — I wanted to wipe it away before it reaches my lip. I wanted to write you a poem that is free of the logical scaffolding that holds my thought — sinfully joyous as a cacophonous melody. I wanted to write you a poem that is free of suffering — like a child wrapped in a thick fur coat of blissful ignorance. I wanted to write you a poem that is free of all that it was and all that it cannot be. I wanted to write you a poem that is free of meaning — suspended in the baffling abstractions of your unruly hair.
Perhaps I cannot nurture this azadi I dream of.
Perhaps I can never be free.
I cannot give you emptiness, only my impassioned plea.
- R
