to the bitter end

right at the beginning, it seemed
perfectly natural in that light.

with your wine-breath on my skin,
i wondered of the likelihood that
staying is perhaps not so difficult,
that my withered skin could regrow.

it’s been a year since i have dared
to think of love or its urgent utility.
it’s been two decades, only it did be-
-come a compulsion to be caressed
after the teenage-thunderstorm
of desires and obtuse obsessions.

you saw it through and still turned
it empty, whipping my senses into
(dis)belief. at my breaking point,
all that i had to do began&ended
without due rancour or reason.

i cannot begin to trust or bequeath
my faith to another, i do not need
to languish in the arms of dead love.

it’s done&dusted, dusted&done,
after having cut open a chest with
its gum residue and dried blood.

.
© Anmol Arora

Day 12
(Inter)National Poetry Month

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broken sleep

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

Day 8
(Inter)National Poetry Month

towards the separation of lips

the mauve-toned sky picks
and plucks at my love’s languid pace,
turning a shade of brinjal-blue
and carrot-red, as suns and rains
drown each other out, before
Venus’ chariot of callous-crowns —

i have seen kisses in the shapes
of a soft-pink roundness,
(a bulging sourness) of falling grapes,

i have seen lips that go up and up,
and down and down, like a loitering
lover, in search of a finicky warmth
(just to belong) in unrelenting arms,

i have eaten morsels of bodies, drank
myself to the satisfaction of projectile-
juices, (parched in deserts) of skin-types,

i have kissed thighs of another order,
and written psalms of sleep at many
arbors, (struggling) beneath a few
forgetful breaths.

let me sleep now for a second or two,
(for your sake)
before i slip through your lips
and become whole again.

.
© Anmol Arora

For ‘Shortcake, waffles, berries and cream .. February!‘ at With Real Toads, where Sanaa inspires us with a poem by Joseph O Legaspi

a twilight story

twilight-time-ellen-henneke

a necessary conclusion —

the lined-shadows of a wing,
falling apart in full-flight,

the sky opens its peach-lips
for a kiss, too far, not enough
in the erection of this exigency
to reach out for a nude name
of belonging.

when your comforting arms
become stifling, intimacy runs out
the door, before it gets too late.

.
© Anmol Arora

A 55-word verse for Art FLASH/ 55 at With Real Toads, where Kerry prompts us to write a short-verse, taking inspiration from a piece called Moth-Woman by @luke.ink.
Image source (Twilight Time by Ellen Henneke)