It has become a habit now –
A pet peeve,
To try collecting
Impermanence and permanence, in one heap.
I remember my wooden box,
And all the seashells, glistening
Of the sea
And how, eventually,
Only the dregs remained
Caked on its sides, etched in time.

I have tried holding on
To dreams,
To clouds,
To the kisses, drenched in lust,
To your fingers burning my skin.
What if, like perfumes, I could keep,
Your quirks in glass bottles
And wear them on those bleak days
When I’m reeking of abstinence and aftermaths?

There were no monsters under my bed,
For it was damp with resentment
Swabbed over and over the same wound,
Taking turns at revisiting and refreshing;
Requiems, sung in hollow voices and quicksand eyes.

I wish I could go back in time,
Leave myself undone.
I could erase your pencil mark existence,
But your impressions would remain
Like the uneven trenches and hideous striations
I hide from the world,
And reveal under the sheets.

5 August 2016

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