wishful thinking

you never liked summers,
always drawing the shades.
i did not mind the cool dark shadows
but did you think i could not hear
the crook of the finger
that beckoned you to betray me?

my fair weather friend,
if i had a knife right now
i would stick in it in your foot
right between the third and the fourth
metatarsals, and watch your lung bleed inside
while you writhed in agony outside.
and i would hire sarnath
to use a 2b to sketch the various shades of pain
making their mark on your face.
and then i would pay him some more
to permanent ink you.

maybe i would write a poem
and take it to jeet
who might take it to sridhar
who might sing it in her smoky voice
so i could wet the very dry martini
in the library bar with my tears.

treachery does not have a season,
but i let you laugh for too many,
now that the sakura is in bloom,
i am glad to bury you here
under the hundred thousand petals,
before the heat gets you.