NYU Black Renaissance Noire Winter 2014 - Page 92

By MEHA SEMWAL On the Eve of My Return I dream of our reunion: I’ve forgotten how to kiss — no electric peach fuzz, no freckle frisking, just — perverse: (adj) per-verse, of, or pertaining to, poetry. The disaster is irreparable. Instead of celebrating we sit  for a serious while. You want and I don’t. I think of bonobos in an unsexy zoo. The piranhas are hungry tonight, ribcage flesh to chest. I touch yours. Your heartbeat is erratic, I diagnose you with a flutter, dire symptom of chronic affection. 90 My own heart is still: just a cinnamon lisp, a faint tremor, a terminal unlove.