Around the Riddle That Got Us in One Room

Prateek Joshi

I might be a rote

while you have all the moves;

when you are adrift, in colours of your dress, as it flings off the skin,

I could see myself on different hues of a rainbow,

struggling a little, shrugging off the riddle

of what to make of you and what to do away with.

This after having written rude letters

to you in apology

for the sake of that night

where we had all the opportunities.

To settle the strife of the patience,

so as to lease my storm onto you,

and with the advent of the pause

you took before you swirled your thumb

into my mouth could have held

a glass full of mercury burning

to brittle shards, that might figure

in a speech of a Kardiashan

as she rumbles her letters to strangers,

when in her mind swings a millionaire

I could swivel one or two passes off the spring

as I finish undoing your buttons,

plus I have to let a rip

count down to the gap between your thighs

as your skin peeves a hike of the rhyming moans

as it wriggles a figure out of my fate,

to watch you jiggle the bombs strapped to your chest.

Lying about with a cigarette lit, ashes falling on skin

before it burns a heart shaped wound

to remind how we've found us in. . .