Poetry: Love Packed In A Green Duffel Bag

When I left town, I packed your memoirs in a green duffel bag,
I intended to trash.
'Just do it' the bag said, and I agreed.

That was four years ago.
Your son wasn't born yet, though his father
had arrived to dazzle you with his French accent
and ability to concoct desserts
unknown to mankind.

My afterthoughts have determined that my case was lost
even before I first talked to you,
but by blaming him, my passions can slurp
my bitterness with relish.

Reminders loomed every month,
as dates associated with your birthday,
engagement, his birthday, your son's birthday,
your wedding date, anniversary of our first rendezvous,
our first kiss, that night of Kama, of passion,
our last meeting that had passed without an event,
and of details, that every holiday, every festival
had admitted in your name,
as dates, with their fangs and forks,
raked the dying embers of my lost cause.

I have a confession to make.
I am opening the bag today,
not because I wish to relive my memories.
My pursuit is unholy one,
for in those relics, I wish to find
my ability to love,
to love again.

So many words and feelings,
that sound clichéd or my own,
have surfaced from her lips.
So many words, once my own,
seem to have so little effect.

A human heart stands like a mountain unfazed-
unfazed by whispering winds and wailing rain.
You were once a mountain, which I am now.
I am opening the bag today, to find
my ability to love,
to love again.