Our lives are spent
Between “How it could have been!” days.
When you return from office,
And set the dinner table,
The “How it could have been!” day,
Rises like factory smoke,
Blackening your time with soot.
Every inch of your skin
When you scrub under the shower,
Resists the rinsing away of
“How it could have been!” sighs.
When you mutter in sleep,
And dream my illegal dreams,
Those which shoo away norms, rituals and customs
Clutching the sheets in aborted pleasures of ecstasy
And hear my ghostly murmurs
Calling out your name,
A “How it could have been!” day is born.
Snuffed out the moment you wake up next morning
Brush your teeth, shampoo your hair,
I slowly crawl away amongst the bubbles,
A frothy exit, down the drains,
March out, blowing away
The “How it could have been!” candle
For another day.