you are that unseeable identity, that
if I could touch you, I’d have to believe
that the stars have convulsed my destiny,
into a deep dense breath that passed
through your lips the last, which if I
could, I would store in my thought and
cling to you, stopping in your tracks,
.
but never did I know that I am helpless
and you were as well, and the story did end
the way it started, in anonymity of self,
by the destructive divulge, that dearth of
the flower of empathy that never sprouted,
.
its seed lost, smashed under the wheels
of your car, and your words did it all,
they hit my face with a blunt force and
I do not bleed, I am just left with shapes
of your anger, painful to sweetening while
the tears sting them with my obsession
over what was there, so trivial once,
.
now buried in mounds where a cactus grows up
surrounded by hills, it, you, everyone is still
alone and I am alone cherishing droplets
of blood that sprout out of my palms as
I longed to touch your identity and did,
.
still left without knowing what is that
treacherous triviality which made it so
that I ache to hear you in the dark so
that you can pull me to where you are
and make me a cup of tea and we talk
throughout the day, through the night
sitting on jute mattresses, I yearn to
hear you tell your tale and I hold your hand
as you guide me back to this time, your time
long gone, your name scratched by nameless
bystanders who still wait to spit once again
where there your bones lay dead, and I sing
a song of solitary sentence that not only
ceases the breath, but also erases a life
and a fate, and I sing, to continue, I sing
.
© Anmol Arora 2014
Image source: Painting © Arnaud Demol
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