when you are still clutching at
the last few strands of sleep, and
the air is grim with envy for
the shape of your belief,
i want to entomb your fragility
in a mausoleum, made of
that first smile, the last kiss, the dread
of a heart, breaking into wet dirt,
that we scrap from our weary old souls,
after a half-digested need (breath-like)
for the other.
i want to be a tearful-sight, a shadow-
sign of your unfulfilled sleep. i want
to rest against the ghosts of your lies,
till wakefulness pushes me towards
the exit of your dire dreams.
do not rise yet, do not put me down yet.
i want to want once more, before the end.
© Anmol Arora
(Inter)National Poetry Month