Widow's drape

White
as black
as a widow's drape
will be my attire
Your ego
marked
my attire
with
the colour of
wakching's frost
Black chandon from my nose
crawling up my forehead
Deep and dark
as long winters' night
I mourn your death
with my hueless life
My present smudged
by your absence
My lips unpolished
My hair locked
in a bun
Malacious whispers
welcome my arrival
at dusk
They grudge me
a thambal leikhok
Framed forever
in a monochrome
At every feast
the serpent streets
scorns me
with
an ice cold marble reception

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sunrise sunset

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Ode to my book rack

The book rack was between amber and brown, between fire and earth. The rich dark chocolate of dusk had set in when we got it. A wave of dust had colored the wood with a layer everywhere and we had taken contemplative miniature steps from a shop to the other –feeling every wood, seasoned or un-aged, we had knocked on the planks, on doors that you can walk around. Finally, we had rested our eyes on you. We had looked at you feet to the brim, heavy and bright, our fingers had brushed against you. You left an oval of dirt on our fingertips. I didn’t taste you but I knew you were salty, a fruit that the seas of my emotion had chosen. Now, I will discard you for I am as room-less as you. You and I were destitute of the night. Standing against the wall of the house, opening to me like a mouthful of kisses I had mourned and perished and grew with the books in your bosom. I now asked your leave, where would I leave you? He, filled to the brim, doesn’t have room. I would not have wanted the swollen sketch to look at you with her sneer. He has racks and racks. Mine- you, would be mundane. Naked in your skin I will dismantle you slowly. Take down books of poetry and prose, books clothed in their glory jackets and books almost naked and threadbare. I wish I could depart with you, to another life but for now I kill you, with pain that stabs me when I stab you. I will punch you and bleed my knuckles over you. On rare days of crisp sunny winters you and I will share our coffee, we will leave coffee mug stains on the floor – a circle like a ring, a circle akin to handcuffs you’d think. Sometimes a house lizard will run over you leaving padded footsteps marked in dust. Your death will reduce to ashes and the wind will powder me with your gray remains. I will see your ghost with a glittering stream of autumn moonlight. I will lose my companion, who looked at me with his sorrowful gaze; who looked at me with his ocean eyes. I will lose my companion, who when I am back from my travels burst into a shower of spring.

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