separation

the feeling of forever is sometimes written in silences

angel’s trumpets

you
called me
a wild flower

and
i became one

you drove past me

i saw you drive past me. your beard was longer. your glasses the same. you hunched over the wheel. i hoped you were happy going wherever you were going. we were headed in opposite directions. 

night

night opens and shuts

like a warm generous mouth

i slip in 

and out again—

it closes

ive had a taste of the supple

the dark

the blankless, that is a street with building blocks 

and the whirring sounds of fury

the fury circumvents

and comes to a sudden standstill 

then there’s chaos

night has transformed

into an abyss where words get mistaken for signs

here, songs get translated to sirens 

we wade against time to the banks of memory

night was brief 

but real

and so is its reflection 

it has left me coiling back into my foetus self for now

inside it, i retch a little

i writhe

i spread my fists open and grab what light enters space between my fingers

i draw them around me and hold

the night has sucked and let go one more time

i’m floundering in the aftertaste 

of the softness 

its blank has been as generous as a womb every time 

for now, with my fists clenched—

i breathe 

Just a dream

So, this is how the world looks

coming to its end—

molten

ashen

people rush towards it, 

gathering what is theirs and isn’t 

it’s what we’ve always done—

taken away what is ours,

and isn’t

we kneel in the crimson lava 

and on the purple sands.

there’s no other way to say goodbye 

the sunset gleams weary, 

drowning in its own hue:

now purple, 

now a killer fiery ball

you and I run towards it, too,

kneel thigh-deep in ash

and cup it in our palms;

its what we’ve always done— taken

then you attempt to kiss my mouth 

this, 

while the world smelts around us

i’m an image of myself in my mind,

turning away from you for a lone moment.

I want to watch.

everything I know in me of life and creation 

is exploding and crumbling 

outside the window, 

the world is a melting horizon of purple 

and crimson and violet

 and then blue

Sing me to sleep

“I’m going to sleep.”

“It’s funny that one can decide when we want to go to sleep, don’t you think?” she asked.

“I don’t know. I’m so sleepy.”

The sounds of the night turned on then. The crickets screeched. But they were only inside her head. The gecko said its own name thrice, took a break and said it again; five more times. She has never seen the gecko however and has wondered what it might look like, whenever she’s heard the sound.

“Good luck! I hope you see the gecko someday! You will be missed!” Angela had left a note on her desk the day she was leaving. But no luck. She still hadn’t seen one. Only the sound of it calling out to itself, the way one might do on sleepless nights.

wounded walking

I’m a walking wound.
My face— the part that went down on the road crashing, bangs like a soft drum under my skin. It’s a perpetual drumming under my left cheek.
I feel like i have half a face now. the other half is numb. only the throbbing half has any existence. you are if you throb. if you’re numb, you’re invisible.
then there are bruises. my legs. my bottom. i have one bigger side than the other since the accident.
i don’t actually look wounded, but I’m made up of seething sighs right now.