right at the beginning, it seemed
perfectly natural in that light.
with your wine-breath on my skin,
i wondered of the likelihood that
staying is perhaps not so difficult,
that my withered skin could regrow.
it’s been a year since i have dared
to think of love or its urgent utility.
it’s been two decades, only it did be-
-come a compulsion to be caressed
after the teenage-thunderstorm
of desires and obtuse obsessions.
you saw it through and still turned
it empty, whipping my senses into
(dis)belief. at my breaking point,
all that i had to do began&ended
without due rancour or reason.
i cannot begin to trust or bequeath
my faith to another, i do not need
to languish in the arms of dead love.
it’s done&dusted, dusted&done,
after having cut open a chest with
its gum residue and dried blood.
© Anmol Arora
(Inter)National Poetry Month