The Ruined One

You have come anew,
ending the old dream with a fresher one.
The breasts—when did they bloom?
The middle-aged hairs upon the chest
declare themselves in pride.
Do you know, in the joy of hips,
what peace in the heart, what ease in the flesh may dwell?
 
Upon your lips—
the scars of bites.
I know the pain, ancient and returning,
that once came upon this road with monsoon rains.
Mine was that historic face,
where once you kissed,
in absolute delight.
 
Do you remember still?
Why then does your chin tremble?
The body, lush with signals,
was never burdened by you
with the dignity of embrace.
You told me to forget.
 
So I never sought,
in the body of a middle-aged woman,
the vanished girl within.
The bamboo-stick figure,
like a stalk of tuberose,
remains eternal, hidden deep.
Do not ask me to search for her
through this crowd of flesh and fat.
 
Now sex may be—
yes, I could see you with a lustful gaze,
could you endure it,
as all those others endured,
the hands that pressed this body?
Would you take me the same?
 
Or let me ask the unloved question:
Why did you come,
like a stranger?
Was it that you lacked the courage
to cut away the rest of your life alone?
After so many years,
with dust and leisure gathering,
you came.
 
But I have nothing left to give.
That bamboo-stick figure has gone long since;
what remains is the silence of the cremation ground,
the thin wailing of wind
entering and leaving the hollow skull.
 
This newness I never wished to see;
not even in dream had I thought
that with such a deformed body and mind
I should draw so near.
This fraud shall haunt forever,
for what once was the bread of survival
is now stolen by your altered face.
I had thought desire would pass like a wet dream,
and memory alone remain intact and pure.