Conjugal Love

When you come to this room, I won't light the lamps anymore, I've decided. You will burn as light itself.
Being well is good, but how far well?—I won't ask this question of anyone anymore, not even myself. When you come, I'll simply be well.
Even on holidays when I wake in the morning, I won't fall back asleep. I'll touch the morning sun in your eyes, even if the sun doesn't come. Stretching and stirring.
Before breakfast I'll break my fast with a kiss on your lips. This I promise myself, for certain.
Whatever share of cooking you take, I'll tease you just as much (or more) with this old habit of mine. Just as I do now. Mother will understand—oh, she's just like that! Won't mother feel even a little jealous seeing the one who inherits the burden of tolerating me?
The afternoon holiday nap won't remain a nap anymore—the mischief of stealing sleep will end only when we get thirsty for tea.
In the evening, golden sunlight playing hide-and-seek on your cheeks, or you standing with the bathroom latch open after your bath, water droplets clinging to your earlobes—this simple room will become even more home. I'm telling the truth!
These scattered fragments of anger and quarrel spread everywhere will fade before their stains can dry. I promise.
Fear won't remain in poems of fear anymore, not even unlove in poems of unlove. Only when you come.
I'll give the cancelled paper notes to the ragpickers. Completely. And won't exchange them anymore. You see...
The foolish letters already lying dejected in book folds will lie there even more when you arrive. Won't you feel even a little guilt sweeping dust off the shelves? Let it—that's what I want. Become that much more yourself. How about it?
I won't seek refuge anymore in celluloid strips lovingly preserved and hidden all this time. In that era's demands.
I'll grow tired of forgetting tiredness. Sometimes. I'll fill my hands with heaps of happiness. Give, take. Scatter, shed. Throughout the room, the veranda. Everywhere.
On new moon nights I won't wish for full moons anymore. I know you'll give. You instead of the moon. Won't you?
Anger or hurt feelings—love will defeat them. We'll lose often, yet never lose. You see...
My messy room won't make me messy anymore. Even I, who sometimes get irritated when things are organized, who can't find this or that on time—even I will accept that sometimes becoming an organized 'me' isn't bad either.

I think these things will happen.

(I used to think these things would happen. I posted this piece keeping that in mind.
I think these things won't happen. I'm reposting this piece keeping that in mind.
Those who become such lovers don't think in such ways.

The girl didn't want much. She wished someone would lovingly weave some cheap shiuli or hasnahena flowers into her hair. Alas! What she got was money to buy expensive hair clips.
A young man waiting long with a bunch of white jasmine in hand. Finally he meets some modern woman. She comes forward smiling with bobbed hair, or in boycott. Alas! The flowers that should have been braided in some gentle soul's hair end up feeding an innocent goat's hunger.
This is what happens. This must be fate. What cruel mockery of the Creator! Of course it happens! Otherwise why would He be the Creator at all?!)