By Aditya Nagarajan
How lonely, left was I to grave
substituting cigarette buds for illusory nipples of my mother
screaming and scathing, modest approvals of despair
those never ending love, lost like words; teenagers write at shores in beaches
I wake up, hollow, a perfectly day-night balanced between nostalgia and emotion
where rhythm masquerades as poignant guilt
I walk, thread-bare, worn-out, outworn, trite and stale
where shadows neither follow nor silhouette appear rare
A close veil of miasma lurk around like scented perfume coming out of
wet blouses
I cough the drag, the cigarette stopped being loyal
the smoke was like the genie, my mouth typified the magic lamp
I throw the rest of the cigarette like an author discards words unnecessary
as I surrender into stupor, sleep betrays me again
