Instant love

When in doubt,
you were blinded by the love

that kills with the sharpness
of an accidental glance.

At work, you’d never ask questions
and be lost in the devastation of silence
that has no meaning;

when in love
you lived life out of a blue suitcase,
sleeping on airport benches
and surviving on instant coffee,

writing and re-writing the silence
that moves like an obsessional circle
through the ruins;

your credit card bills piling,
you ran out of disasters to meet;

transcribing shadows on evening faces
that remained captive on the shores,
wriggling out the moment
train doors were thrown open.

Yet you survived the abandonment,
your body craving for the thrill of instant life
at every take off,

your lungs dilating with the pleasure
of every souvenir you kept —

every ticket, photograph, postcard
marked out with a date on Instagram,

through the cracks of laughter,
every place like a palimpsest
revealing memories of a localized pain.

When in doubt,
you always swiped right and made out with resignation,
exercising choice over control
as you heard the night softly breaking.

You never salvaged the disaster with an excuse,
but without a hint of helplessness

you switched off the landing lights in the storm
and with no remorse
always chose to move on.

You found instant love in the unlikeliest of places.

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