"Odd how easily you can forget your hand is on fire"
It is like insomnia
Creeping silently
Unnoticed
Through crevices
He wore like the sunset
Set on fire.
Fingertips char,
They become black
Like the day burning
Into a dark night
Fathomless like he was.
Pull your hand away
Yet it swells
Like his eyes
Hidden
Under the crimson
Of fiery devastation.
He remained stuck
Where strands
Of hopeless faith
Cradles candles burning
On rusted horizons.
He is nothing
Except a wasted pronoun
Fitting no where
But within the blank spaces
Of dishevelled poetry.
His eyes were fire
The more you look,
The more you burn.
His heart was ice
Freezing with every breath
You breathe on his brown chest.
How odd it is
To forget your burning soul
Dear Kolkata
From shacks selling rainbows and false ceilings. Kolkata, Amidst the homologous monotone of fading faces is the kind of solitude that keeps disappearing with every piece of dilapidation that ruined you and ruined me. I would not blame the fog or the white blanket of invisible snow over the stars on the river gleaming like droplets of light dripping from the wet sun. I would not call it atrocity, just atrophied obnoxious obscurity of the orthodox cynicism of fireflies camouflaged as lanterns,that sail around the moon looming over your nude brutality ,now secured within your sequined handloom protecting your bare chest. Darling, I have spent nights waiting for the gold of the sky to melt into precarious orange and then into the flaming red that you wear on your lips. I have crossed miles and scampered through moist,damp mysterious meadows of dawn and dusk merging together to touch every freckle on your burnt skin. I have loved each drop of sweat on your bosom,like dewdrops kissing th...
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