By Arushee Shinde
It gnaws and scratches, your heart’s in pieces now,
Splattered on the ground, it shrinks and bleeds.
The needle and thread it holds, caring not if you avow,
Engraving and weaving, “You will lose them.” — it feeds.
You wait and wait; a fast-moving car, a forgotten goodbye.
Their key isn’t in the door; the stitches and the darkness set in.
It looms again, glinting in the corner of your eye,
Racing — chasing and casing them down, “You will never win.”
It does immaculate things to time; Time returns the favour.
Your arms cannot reach far enough, the loudness of your cries — you choose.
Funerals and fires slam your windows; things you forgot to savour.
You mustn’t scratch the scar; there’s only so much flesh to lose.
Yet Time lives within — the one thing failing to fall away from you.
So, kiss, mend, heal and answer; your fear is everything but true.