by Parth Pandya
Traces of rings left by coffee mugs
On the edge of the folding dinner table
Were wrinkles that told the age
Of their history together
Like rings on a tree
Not all memories are tinged with sepia
His were fuchsia and black and brown
Some, of her eyes, some, of the deep crevices
In the nape of her neck
Some, of that little rivulets that ran down her hand
That he traced with his fingers
Like an astute astrologer
The past was like eddies in a lake
Ripples emanating from a seminal event
From the moment he fell for her
And conversed with her, without her
In a night starrier than Van Gogh conceived
And then the real mixed with the surreal
And the imagined word became the spoken word
And the lips that moved, kissed
Then praised. Then cursed. Then expressed regret.
Roses were given and eternal love was promised
And the brittle flowers were kept in books with care
Lest that promise crumbled apart
But if it were easy, it would not be love
Silences became fissures too deep to overcome
And now he sat on the folding dinner table
Imagining conversations with her
While she sat right across
Sipping coffee in a brand new mug
And leaving behind fresh marks
The old one had become a martyr in a lover’s tiff
A gift, now shattered to pieces,
It had once shared a message in ceramic,
“Love Endures”
