Set-me-down mirrors

You know yourself
and lose control
You call yourself old.
Tear out another sheet
from an imperfect diary,
and drive conversations
with mirrors and window reflections.
Suited and tied,
shake hands, nod, appreciate.
Your third furtive glance,
clutch empty glasses,
shift in your shoes and twist one arm around another
struggling
to be a man you never were.
If reflection were
not a trick of the eye
I would have believed you.
Some of us tremble while we speak
but you refuse to look at me;
and I'll never know
if it's another reflection you see in me.

Tomorrow.

It's been 5 years. Yes, we've stuck with each other for exactly that amount of time. My two girls have held my hand and put up with hale and storm, through summer and winter, just when I thought the day would never arrive again.
 Turn left or right, I had two shoulders to lay my head on.  And tomorrow, one of them is getting engaged. She's officially stamping the bond she has developed over one year with a man who makes her sift her words like gold from the dust. She's declaring her love to the world and the three of us feel we've never felt completer in each other's existence.
I've seen that look. That gleam which shoots across her eye within seconds, leaving everyone around her with a sprinkle of that out-of-this-universe dust; that trust. I've seen that look and I know she's sure which is what leaves me as happy as she is.
We always crack up over an absurd joke together. We've always had this thing. Synchronized. In Harmony. Now we smile together when she does. Tomorrow, we might shed a tear or two together too.
Sometimes I think we would traverse galaxies together if we were challenged to. At other times I think we're a little like whisky.

Half-a-measure.

How do you hate too much? Or even love too much? How does one feel anything too much, or even too little? Don't you simply hate, detest, loathe with all the negativity you can muster? And when you love, how can you love too little or too much?
Do you measure it in cups? Or do you use spoons? And if you do, how much do you take? Only half a cup? Two spoonfuls?
Maybe you tailor and stitch the seams until it just fits. 3 inches deep hate. 7.5 metres long love.
Do you not purely love? Untaintedly. Or do you weigh your feelings, like a chemist, with precise milligrams of O2 in your lungs as you breathe-in her scent? Or like the head-chef, checking your love for the right amount of salt and your hate with the exact seasoning of vinaigrette that stores like Poison-Blue in a dubious bottle that's labeled, 'Drink Me'.
Don't you love with all your heart? Every energy! Don't you run with the breeze? Stride across the streets?Don't you let your feet sink into the earth? Don't you want to swim along and leave every limb, every bone, every thought awash with one single current? Not too little or too much. Just one word. Pure hate or 100% love. Every capacity; fill every void, scotch-taping the gaps. Sans shades. Sans loopholes. Without the synonyms and complications, the entanglements and doubts. Without fear. All faith or none. Not one and a half. One whole. Only one. Make an exception right now and tell me the lone truth. Don't you want to?

Only the beginning

Trust. No, I am not talking about lovers breaking apart. 
Trust would be one of the many faces you show off everyday. It has been with you since the day you were born. It is the belief that you wake up with every morning. It is bred by your bedside every night. The belief that helps you rise up and the conviction that makes you step out. In fact, it is you. 
She laboured with this belief everyday for this belief in her. She laboured relentlessly to engrave it in this relationship just like her name was engraved in golden letters on the pen you gifted to her when she was 12.
She worked the hardest. She toughened herself up. But if this belief is born and bred at home, and you have failed to offer it to her in the warm spaces she always returns to, she has not failed along with you. 
There is a particular sort of liberation in the realization that the ones you have tried hardest to convince were never worth the hard work; the realization that the hard work was only you all along, the work that has made you strong enough to let go and set out to conquer the world on your own two feet.
The golden engraving has become hazier over the years. The rusty air is eating away the glossy letters. If she hasn't convinced you enough in 19 years, she might not be able to convince you in the next 19 at all.  Somewhere during all those years, I think she engraved those letters on her spirit. This time, it holds permanence, even with the leaden air. Above all this mist and beyond these man-made doubts, she learned to trust herself. Today and tonight, she feels, she need not wait 19 years longer. She need not wait at all. She is almost ready to let you go. Ready to leave. She is almost herself.