Type, Type, Typing Type of Love 

by Shriya Mkumar

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There have been days i've called you a cheat. 

The bottomless bottles, and flooded voicemails,

 and our good-for-nothing neighbours agree.

 i’ve called you much worse and you never called. 

You are a cheat. You are a crook. You are charming.

but on your very worst nights, you are a poet.

When you conjure up a clever verse before

 i had the chance to wash the city off my back, 

 before the bride’s wedding henna had begun to fade. 

 When all of life must fit in your single-spaced 4 line rhymes, 

it's getting crowded in here. you never made much room for me, 

just the voices that come out when you try to sleep. 

when you can never enjoy the warmth on your bare calves

 and in the part of your hair because you're too busy writing of someone who can.

what can you claim to know of the world when you've been living 

in the same ten streets all your life, what do you know 

but the tread of your shoes? the dread of a new day.

i hate this type, type, typing type of love. 

my back tells a story, your books don't have the spine to carry.

we'll read between the lines, i'm miserable and so are you. 

the only difference is i don't have millions to my name, and i sleep just fine.

your ink is drying up. So sit down at the typewriter and bleed.