By Arjun Kaushal
I did not die,
It is my legacy that ended
It is my absence that began
it is the knowledge of not being anymore
The book I had been filling ungratefully, the pages shortening callously
I did not die,
It is the sadness my mother shall know, cursing her ineptitude
it is the words my dad shall keep, forever in regret
it is the granny left alone in the stairs, weighed down by groceries
it is the hawker encountering an empty yard, papers piling up
It is the clothes that will never be worn.
It is the dog that will never be fed.
I did not die,
perhaps I take death for granted,
perhaps I don’t hold the importance
perhaps delusion describes this best
perhaps these are hopes I burden people with
while lying there, in crimson red,
has blood ever looked so lonely
would there be any change if I hadn’t missed the bus.
I die afraid
I die restless
I die a meaningless mundane death, fitting a meaningless mundane life.