By Nitya Mongia
I dance,
a moth to your flame.
If only a scorch could drive me away, I would be long gone.
Pleasure in pain,
a maroon-laced dress,
pulled-out strings by your noxious embrace.
If not a whole, I would engulf you in fragments.
Only a blaze that touches and doesn’t speak,
words from my mouth wish to gush out, foamy lips
waiting patiently for their turn.
But I’ll take what I can get,
a moth to a flame,
skin on skin,
poisonous caress.
For a moment’s bliss,
I take in an eternity’s sting.
I’ll cling to the flame for
as long as it burns, even if it means shattering my own wings.
I’ll go back till there’s no more,
I’ll let you in till you burn out.
A physical tether to my soul’s despair, because in that,
I possess your existence,
and that sliver is enough to bear.
Though I wish to be in your mind,
your soul,
be your moon
and star,
be your day
and night,
I’ll be what you want me to.
At least I will be close, at least you’ll be a presence that breaks
and heals and breaks
me again.
At least I will be close, at least you’ll be a presence.