what is the colour of black?

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black is the sound of a phone call
through hazy lines, that keeps on
ringing — delayed response,
stopping short of despair — its greys
subdued, in the harsh daylight.

black is the smell of fresh blood, lip-
shaded hurt that keeps on aching,
rising — tendrils of lust reaching out
for a dark, dark touch — i’ve wondered
if i can rise to the height of burning.

black is the nail-paint — matte, you
said — it makes my fingers look long-
err — these short sardonic evenings
to gather at the shore, monochrome
boats returning to a long night’s door.

black is the imprint of a stranger —
shadows and sighs, desire held aloft,
succumbing to these charms — my
hurt getting wider, my lies deeper, as
hopes trickle down in half-streams.

black is the taste of your smile — sly,
shy, standards apart — white masks
falling from our eyes, to see the shape
of nothingness, its skin we wear unto
our hearts, like a hole stretched apart.

i see black remorse — no spectrum
to measure its length and width —
a world missing, where i could be singing
to the clouds, and they would pour down
all the colours, remembered and lost.

.
© Anmol Arora

Image source (Abstract Painting by Ad Reinhardt; © 2018 Estate of Ad Reinhardt/Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York)

Written for my prompt at dVerse on Shades of Black. Don’t forget to check it out.

spring of lust

and i am tracing the spaces
your lips covered/caricatured
on my sunshine skin —

my lips blooming&bursting
this spring of lust, bereft of stars,
while i look for my own loss
in the dark.

the roads are endless in this city
of loss,
but my beginning is its own end.

where do i go to seek the poetry
of things? how can i ever
make this night last?

.
© Anmol Arora

Day 4
(Inter)National Poetry Month

the loss of agency

vincent-van-gogh-scream-painting-parody-of-the-scream-and-starry-night-art-parodies-duel

keeping up with timelines of loss —

the cold-handed warmth
of a touch, where the waist meets
the censure of modesty —

small-sectioned, covered
half-inched skins, neat-folded
and soft-edged,
curved, light-bearing,
pinched between the nails,

silver-glinted.

the early nights (touch) take something
from all of us.

.
© Anmol Arora 2018

Image source (A Munch-Gogh Parody)
For dVerse Quadrille # 67

moving on

 

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you are lost, as i lost
in your loss.

the seas of time have come ashore,
flooding and taking away all that
remains —

you were once there, drinking
the moon wine (it is you who
brought me the white for a late
dinner), and addled potions of
a lone star at my lone window,

it’s at the end, that it all began,
the turbulence of words (said
and unsaid) created voids, built
of a few nights’ fantasized storms,

you made me see the fire-glass
that only showed your visage,
your eyes growing pit-wise, you,
yours only – form and facsimile –

and i knew that i did not have to
leave, because you were not there,
never meant to be, and so it was —

a singular bulb fuse that flickered
out, into the emptiness of the room.

~

© Anmol Arora 2018

More of a frustration than a heartbreak — For dVerse Poetics
Also linking it up with The Tuesday Platform at With Real Toads

And I somehow found something to go with it. Ha! Image source (Light Headed 3 by Leah Saulnier)

***

I have been working on a new Insta handle for over a month now, for literary and creative posts: @anmol.ha.
For contact, you can reach out to me through my multiple profiles, enlisted here.

an evening reverie

 

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what I shall make out in green and concrete –
the milk of this evening has gone rancid
in its own boiling heat – white blossoms curled
into their wombs – colored winds in this play.
what I shall discern of you, in your want –
an iris dusk shedding silken-haired light,
hung at the mere hint of one last goodbye.

.

For dVerse MTB

Image source (Arizona Dusk by Erin Hanson)