I
My fingertips traced moonlit moments
around the dark areoles of your
fleshy imagination. Your closed
eyes enwrapped the sensation, and
the loo on my lips whispered of the
wonder you felt.
II
O dear! Why must
you color like a rosewater stain; its
only poetry, not a video recording.
III
Sparks only fly when you nails plug-in
the chasms they have created in my back.
Pain, I guess, is the switch we must
flip, before pleasure can be turned on.
IV
My ploughing of these sheets hasn't
produced a single crop. Sweat is so
salty that its useless for irrigation,
and trust me, seeds sprout only when
the season and soil are rightly chosen.
V
O dear! Why must
you color like a rosewater stain; its
only poetry, not really a memoir.
VI
Age has made your ribcage grow,
the bones seem too eager to escape-
the loosely hanging crumbling tissues
that once smelt like sandalwood
have color of dry, decaying grass.
VII
O dear! Your ash in my hand
scalds the grip that once longed to carry newborns.
As I disperse ash into Ganga, our years together
dissolve away in the eternal flow.
Soon, I'll be, in the river too.
April 06, 12:15 am & April 07, 11:00 am!
