He Says. She Says. Poem by Shikha Gupta

She says she doesn't like
What they say,
Neruda, Akhmatova and Amichai.
Says she'd rather listen to me.
I smile but don't understand.
It's all the same.

He says there's haunting poetry
Within me
And poetry everywhere
Without.
I'm not sure it's poetry
But that
We savour the melancholy
And hear music
When the notes are punctuated
By cries.


She says- you've never understood me;
I really love you.
And I say- it's you who's never
Understood
Me.
And Silence heaves the scattered thoughts
In her arms-
Abandoned children that wail-
Waits. Demands.

He says- because when I see you,
I smile.
So you must always be
In front of me.
I didn't know if the moment
Warranted
Another question.
Like a rubber-band twisted
Into a funny shape,
It was pretty and awkward.
So I put away his things instead.
Water falls on steel. And fills.


He says- why d'you have to be so
Cryptic and mysterious?
I wish I knew.
Maybe it's like they say-
Maybe it's because of the way
The sun and the moon and the stars
Conspired.
Or maybe I should stop kidding
Myself.
Maybe it's not why I am
The way I am
But why I'm not
The way I'm not
That's important.
Just... maybe.

She says she's sorry.
She had no idea; she didn't know.
Honestly, I didn't either.
I guess it isn't easy living
With mysteries.
No, it's not easy.
Just convenient.


And now you've said so much
And I've heard
A lot
But nothing makes sense
Over the music.
The soundtrack.
The words.
He sings for me.