Amrisha Sinha

curled fists fuse themselves
into the warmth
of clipped grass,
tension easing into loose soil.

inhaling the empty wind
of hell’s own kitchen fire,
you welcome it in.
it’s the wilting of lungs
you crave now.

exactly a year ago was
when cool artificial air
saved you from twig-like
fingers and chins,
when the soft whistle
of a laugh was the only air
you wanted to breathe in.

there was a need for closed doors,
dark curtains, reflective glass
and khus injected lassis
- a small incubator
for your shy glances
and his gentle teeth

now you listen
to the crackling of dried mint leaves
above glasses of aam panna,
hoping you could steal
their lost innocence,
their past ignorance,
of what came next.
while the sun iluminates
your corpse,
you wish
you didn’t know
what it meant
to feel
while breathing
virgin air.

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