He believed in old love

He believed in old love, and only in old love.

Old love, where a hug was a cuddle, a kiss that stopped time, silences words that said themselves. He yearned for old love, like he yearned for his morning coffee- out of habit, a comfort which made life worth living.

His old love rode with him on the imaginary trams that criss-crossed the main through-ways of the city. His old love held his hand while he travelled on the local, and pecked his cheeks at the first smell of sea as they reached the beach.

His old love was memories tightly knit by steady hands which believed that they will be well worn, with tales of their own to tell those came after. His old love was the canter of the fort-city, the stink of sweat, the never-ending struggle to remain as it is, through storms and parched summer afternoons.

His old love was one in the morning, when there were no horns or dogs barking, when the lonely crows of the city slept on the branches of coconut trees, when rusty air conditioners gritted and grated their teeth in faux poetry.

His old love was a sultry hot Sunday afternoon, lazy, contently fed, sparsely clothed, and rhythmic snores which tickled if you lay close enough.

His old love was the first whiskey bottle- lost in some forgotten corner, half-remembered on Saturday nights when songs from the eighties shed their age and shy to move in half-steps and full to the nineties.

His old love was letters written in cursive with words stuck haphazardly- intended to be a quip, but all they made out to be was as adage to angst and hope, a whisker on a teenage upper-lip.

His old love was the poems that remain unread, stocked and locked in heavy cupboards with moth balls, lest they be pried, even if unintended.

His old love was a name, firmly said, with no half vowels, and consonants which stirred storms in antique tea sets.

His old love was a hard trek up the hill of ancient stones, carved to mean, to be, but now in ruins, except for those eyes, which still seem to see.

His old love was a sketch which still he held, a t-shirt he still wore, a laughter he heard, tears that were left unshed.

His old love felt salty on the tip of his tongue, never spoken, but never forgotten.

His old love was a dream, which he wished was a memory.

His old love he held like a phantom limb, never seen, but always felt.