Only That

Was it November? Heaps of cigarette ash in the tray. Who would believe If I tell them now, How we had internalized This song already by then. How we had the world in our fists already then, How our fingers were crazy...

A wave of somethings appeared out of nowhere Thoughts, recollections and some debris Some, questioning if my memory is true Others, smiling with kindness at me— but still unhappy at my worries That I didn’t create...

I did not understand fire, Until I saw desire in her eyes. Nor did I know the smell of ashes, Until I was tucked in the urn. Between the desire and the ashes, A country self-immolated in hatred. Its men drunk plenty on...

How sweet it is, to feel your love
In your patronizing wishes
To find me a purpose
In your all-knowing maharshi

And so this poem ends
Like my pedantic poems
Unlike your fantastic ones

Thus I crawl from one doorstep to another.
Waiting for the Death,
Hoping it will show up when I sleep.