Most of my childhood memories lie dormant in the sidewalk
waiting for me to wet them on a hot day
Like a fork descending upon a cherry tomato,
he would either be hers forever
or run far far away.
If I loved you in a forest
And no one heard me
not even you
Was it real?
Was it real like
A quantum suggestion,
Nature's mild mantra?
I steer my Scrabble tiles around the board
until they say all my real words,
Tell the long story of how we met and
the smell of your damp sweater sleeve
rising and falling, growing hot and cold
on my shoulder.
But you leave before the game is over
And now no one can win or lose.
All these words splinter into nameless neutered toy letters,
tumble down the slick sides of a bended board,
slink back into their velvet pouch,
back into the cardboard coffin,
up on a shelf in the closet where no one will look.
Certainly not you.
Was it real?
Did it take up time and space
Cast a bright shadow
Ripple through still ponds of nothing?
Some government agency must
retain a copy of
the birth certificate of my love
Smashed sloppily in a weary file folder,
Time and date crusted over by the passage of too much time and
too many dates.
What? No witness signature? But that's just it.
Let it go, they say. Move on.
But where does old love go to die?
Does it wither in spurts, waxing feisty and manic, roaring demands at the racing wind?
Or walk the lonely city streets, gradually fading among the younger faces until
breath becomes vapor
Red and yellow Post-It-Notes
brittled by months of harsh air conditioning
silently dislodge themselves from the side of the computer screen and drift
to the desk.
Fall foliage in California.
My name is Nasreen. I write micro essays, one-liners, and other small things. Most of them were funny at some point, at least to me.