When I finally meet her
I will bloom satisfaction
Pluck enough to reshape into hope
Track back to this moment and
Seduce the small skeptic sizes
Of me into waiting a bit longer…
It won’t require much for me to convince myself that some of my love poems—even if not evident—have deep roots in, or sort of link to, an event of my childhood. Particularly, a wild day in the pool of my past days when I was in primary school. Such an event!
It occured in a time when I was yet to appreciate the basics of crush, or romantic fantasy; when Its requirements and limits were obviously unknown to me. Alas, it became my first lesson.
Who’d have thought of the devilish whisper that made me pull the trigger? It’s likely my crazy friend, someone who was friend to all the gorgeous girls and the “cool” boys in our level. Back then, I knew that a reluctant suggestion of a go-ahead is all it’d take for my plea to reach the object of my desire. That friend of mine being the vehicle of course.
It’s long ago but the weight of the memory has drilled tattoo deep in my heart, in my mind, in the heart of my mind and the mind of my heart. I still have a clear idea of where I was sitting and with whom I was sitting, side-by-side with our blue and white check uniforms glued. His arm that’s closer to me was dropped, as if consolingly, around my shoulder. It isn’t clear when his arm got around me. Was it there since before she came, the moment she came, or when she was already erupting? What I’m sure of is it happened just about time for us to return to classes from break. That floating space of excitement when play is most sweet when students search for the lump of thrill that’ll hold them up through the boredom of class until the next break. That was also the time when she staged the drama. Who wouldn’t want to buzz around any open-smelling scandal? Maybe those who weren’t around. I only saw it coming when I saw her, alongside her friends, coming.
It’s not clear if she came with the sun—her striking yellow face and her steadily intensifying emission of invectives didn’t help. She told me, in no uncertain words, why my feeling isn’t and can never be requited.
Not to read much meaning into the situation looking backward; not to accuse my friend of conspiring against me (or to say the least, of refusing to give me a heads up); but he was the very person that was sitting side-by-side with me. At least he offered me a support, a resting arm on my shoulder. I never knew what they discussed or whether he had prior knowledge of her intentions. I didn’t ask, he didn’t tell me. Or, it may be that the pain of embarrassment deeply unsettled and rendered me unable to retain any more conversation about the event.
Below are my poems that may have been inspired by the heritage of deep longing born of the event.
WORTH THE WAIT by Abdurrazak Salihu.
When I finally meet her
I will bloom satisfaction
Pluck enough to reshape into hope
Track back to this moment and
Seduce the small skeptic sizes
Of me into waiting a bit longer
A bit longer is eternity
For a sick seeking heart
But surely it is second and second
And second ... of a journey to the moment
When a bit longer becomes a second past
Filled with near-empty memory
Readily blown with a sigh.
Requited Feelings by Abdurrazak Salihu.
I wish that one day,
When i think I should
For times i can't remember
I will hold your hand and
Take you to my place,
Switch on the light, the gush
Fills you with déjà vu
I will be lost at how jumbled
You may find my place,
Or still how i will not care
Like a cancer patient permits
The doctor to tell how wide,
I will let you see for yourself
Amidst my chaos, you will
Jump in my desk, find a sheet &
Sketch how your place looks like
In few days, I will strive to adapt
As a stranger to a new reality
Where two people can manage
The exact same thing.
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