after sunset

the single lamp glowers
like a stray dog caught in dishonour —

smoke rises from the lips of a cracked
sky, engines backfire, our staccato breaths
hold our words near, by each other’s side,

as we reflect over the absolute need
to be detached from people, from every-
thing, like the smile of a wicked flower
that is about to fall to pieces —

our tea turns colder by the minute,
our talks do not have the urgency of life,
we are sailing our friend-ship without
its anchor, uprooting planks and prod-
ding needs and exchanges, required
of us — the emotional labour doesn’t
have an eight-hour ending period
of a working (not for me) day,

so we slurp, &gulp down the remains of it
from our vessels — all the words strewn
between us like aimless ash of a charred sun.

.
© Anmol Arora

Day 25
(Inter)National Poetry Month

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