I Loved You Differently but I Loved You the Most
Remember that summer workshop when I alone
defended the whole of your second draft?
My zeal even made you, its creator,
wide-eyed and frozen in your seat.
You knew I was the quiet one among our peers
and always abided by the path of least resistance.
But my gut feeling said that you were going for the music
of the alliterations since you’ve long shied away
from the antique charm of end rhymes.
(Note: By “antique,” I mean, “immemorial and immortal” --
and why not write in that scheme again?)
You knew that one word less and the poem
would be off-key and could no longer sing.
For you, my impassioned feedback:
“Let us not go for concise
until it is no longer nice.”
(If ours was a barbershop,
every customer would be leaving
as a skinhead!)
Remember that summer?
Anyway, you don’t have to.
By the way, I still . . .
Never mind.
My Buyer’s Hesitation over Gifting You a Bike
After three attempts at taking your own life,
with the last one almost final,
you asked me to buy you a bike.
A bike! I could only imagine
the happiness it would give you!
To ride around the park in lieu
of walking around the ward!
Yes! A bike! But . . . how fast
can any driver of a speeding car react
in case you attempt
to test the strength
of your two-wheeled vehicle
against his four-wheeled metal?
A bike. Yes, I know the joy
of riding one.
I can already see
the unbearable beauty
of you gliding by;
your bronze hair billowing
to the passing breeze,
your smile ethereal
as the afternoon sun.
But . . .