in memoriam

The night is as black as any other,
the same crickets in symphony out there on the grass patches
and sometimes toads will croak, in interjections.
Probably the same toads, as yesterday's
or the night before last.
Or perhaps a next generation of toads
and crickets.

I see the night through the small slit of open window,
the rest curtained, because I want to shut it out --
shut the night out. It is better to be hemmed in like this
than to let self be exposed.
I don't like that.
It is easier to deal with the night this way because the night
holds some memories --
memories that shouldn't have been memories.

And I wish I cannot hear the sound of your voice;
it is still ringing, you know, in my head, your accusatory tones.
And then the sound of the lift doors opening
and closing. The cold dust, the cold tiles, of the ground.
Oh yes, I still remember.

So I don't like to be reminded of the night.
Let me stay here
celebrating. In memoriam of
the part of self that died
that night.

egg and chicken

do you love him because you need him? Or do you need him because you love him?

Perhaps it's like asking someone: which comes first -- the chicken or the egg? It is indeed a question worth pondering over.