the odd-familiarity leaves a dull feeling
to compensate for all those years past —
coal and gravel need to stick to the soles
of my slippers, as a reminder of all that is
glued with the truths of an empty hearth.
the oil-paint peels down on my shoulders,
plaster sticks to my falling hair, reclaiming
the flesh that was shed at a time of loss,
a mark of the presence, of a pulverized hope
that everything can be whole once more.
the lights are cobwebbed in a frenzied display
of lives, lived in entanglements of an arachnid-
mesh, of raised voices, flippant arms, bruises
and burn-marks self-inflicted in the watershed
moments, to break free from the unified mold &
the intrinsic blockades of the wry social norms.
this coming is like the trace of a feline paw-mark
made, re-made on the veneer of this ménage —
the rust on the old photos, broken glass, wiped
tabletops and dust motes on the couch (that still
carry the shape of me), all fervent to clutch & grab
once more at my oft-broken, and remended heart.
© Anmol Arora