;

a cup of coffee,a stack of books,and a disheveled bed; windows painted shut and grey walls closing in on me, i tell myself that no room is unhaunted. my mother's old sarees, decrepit and dusty, lie silent on the other side of the door. they smell of heartbreaks and burning suns. i wonder how many roads did she have to walk down before she became her. i wonder how many roads i would have to walk down before i become her. my pillows tinted flesh carry the weight of my chains, except that i'm not quite sure if they're chains or poems. or my own veins for that matter. now watch me struggle to eat raw air. now watch me get asphyxiated by swallowing pain; rooted in the memories of a woman  whose eyes resemble mine.

mid-august nights, you knit waves onto my skin. I wake up smelling like the seven seas,  only to find you gone. the anecdotes you left on my body, half-written love letters at the corners and curves, they'd continue reciting your name till time ends. amidst dragonflies and cobwebs and old blankets, i'd find myself thinking about how rain fell through your beard the day we walked along an array of mirrors, each that turned into cinder the moment we passed them. your shadows would trespass my thoughts, while i sit at this desk and  scribble about the way you kissed me  the day we met, my white skirt tucked in between my thighs  and the back of my throat,aching. maybe some days i'd write about your face that day, the face after that kiss, the face my fingers traced madly, the face i'd know in my dreams, the face that made me lean towards love and longing.