He felt a pang of anticipation at the thought of her, rushing

to the bathroom to brighten her lipstick

as drunk perfumed bodies

tangled around him,

and he could smell a scent on her skin, like a mixture of whiskey and rosewater,

dignity, solemnity, beauty even.

All night she kept his long fingers linked with hers as they walked,

their electricity, 

their long, steady flame

rising, spreading in waves of laughter, into an exchange of confessions

like when he would hang up the phone after one of their conversations 

wondering which plane in the sky was hers, 

what she would say, the thought of it exciting to him

But now she wouldn’t look at him,

absorbing details without curiosity, a blade that curved 

like the prow of a Viking ship, sailing to battle in distant seas,

making it even more difficult for them to see each other 

in so much silence.

He felt knots forming at the back of his neck,

her knuckles pale, her wrists trembled and her English faltered

as she made herself tea but let it grow cold

she looked at him now, her face contorted with sorrow 

he’d heard her crying for

he no longer wanted to touch her

The birthday candles had burned out

and they wept together for the things they now knew

What was there left to say to her?

The thought of that silence 

oppressed him.

Adaptive Form Poem based on This Blessed House, Mrs. Sen's, Interpreter of Maladies, and A Temporary Matter by Jhumpa Lahiri.