By Divyashree Sundaram
It's August now — why did July feel so long?
The strings out of tune, signifying the end of a song;
your cheeks the shade of sunset, but
you are a lost memory — like fog over the clouds.
Is solitude a new word for my state of being?
A splatter of rain washing away the sorrows of yesterday,
blinded by the sun to reach the shore.
Wind gushing through my ears,
moonlight igniting my desires for the night.
Idle August mornings, hazy afternoons,
yearning midnight hours —
is this what life feels like in your mind?
Blood-red eyes struggling to meet the tender warmth of sleep,
heart so weak — like a loose thread of cloth hanging by.
Hands shiver as fear engulfs the soul —
too late to get hold of myself.
Leaning by things that define my existence,
yet not by mere presence
do I know what to search for in a home?
A place? A person? A feeling?
Or a glance? Or a touch?
Uncertainty, my better half —
in the end, is it only for the laughs?
A slow burn, like candle wax —
but I was the match that died
even before it had the time to spark.