Do not open for visits, let it stay hushed like my heart!
The mausoleum of your memory – crushed – my heart!
Look! How the trees submitted to the calls of the wind!
My portion of grief and regret is yet shushed to my heart!
How I discovered a geography to map stories we never lived.
“My face was the last metaphor in his eyes”, gushed my heart!
In search of epiphanies, I light clay lamps in the charcoal nights
Unable to reach your hands, my tears falling on tar, rushed my heart!
With every rain, my eyes change colors like the sky
Purple purple is the angst, and red blushed my heart!
Moist – the desire of reunion blooms out of my skin pores
This spring is sterile – no leaves, no love – and bushed my heart!
The trailing tail of my gown
in a wrapped rhythm
dust discoes no more
on the tracks
you have disowned
and I am sprinkling them with oblivion
not with the rain of my ruination
the dust settles for a while
on seeing my curls composing
a wind wails, and summons a whole hell
of shards and snicks of glass
that you exploded once and I was being dragged through remains
my eyes seeping through glued lashes
my lips licking on coarse cuts
my gown is not mine
it’s yours, it concealed you.