The jinx of juxtaposition

He weighed too much

on the comparisons,

not reading the signs

of no contrast , no claims.

parallel identities , crossing names.

he said black was black,

grey was grey,

but blue was or may,

be close to black.

he said black was my shade, 

just as his past.

but blue is blue

in timid variations,

an array of hues, 

never black in blurring

but dark in imagination.

He weighed too much,

on differences,

all my thoughts seemed references

to his past,

his morbid past he never complained,

never lamented, always refrained.

but why was I such a bane?

his then and when 

if they were same?

had he never loved then

or did it cause too much pain?

'when' took over 'then'

while he was still sane,

to recover from either,

and curse neither.

Was it that grave an error

that I were a melange,

a bit of me,

more of his old romance?

and bottled the rest,

did not take a chance,

to reveal more of me,

the less he would understand.

he covered his face,

in his own palms,

through the gaps of his fingers,

he viewed a self trance.

and then he could have blamed

I was not too keen,

as I laid no claims 

to being me.

All I did make,

of what I heard of him last,

was that he was in love with once,

but now despised his past,

too swinging to know 

which of the either,

and hence he never blamed

and cursed neither.

As for my heart swinging on a steel line,

barbed with iron, cut through threads that were fine,

I were a fool. more mortal, less divine

in fragments of his past, what presents could he find?

it is not a curse, nor do I feel disdained

his romances had  him cold,

I was too close a flame.

to give him warmth or light,

and cause no burns,

I curse not him,
 the jinx of juxtaposition.