Ankita Singhania
To love or not to love
is up to you - they say.
I wonder;
is it?
Do I have the
might and main
when my nerves and sinew
have been dipped;
deep
into the ocean of
wishful desire?
His eyes the only thing
I see, before
his fanciful arms
engulf me in a
trance of rhythmic siesta.
His name, but form
my evening prayer;
a Buddhist chant;
it’s vibrations
reaching my chakras
and I am filled with
His. Him. He.
His words find their way
through me
like a channel,
its valve broken
like our worlds have.
As I pen my feelings;
the ink forms my hands
and bloat on the paper;
paper as pale brown as
the color of his skin.
How do I stop
his mellow voice from
humming hypnotic lullabies
to my lovelorn soul,
putting me to peace, only
to be awaken by
the searing pain
of wanting him?
And they say -
to stay or to walk away
is up to you,
is it?