I’ve outloved myself.
How does a desperate person love?
till the point of desperation and a little more.
A yawn stretched to a sigh
in the corner of my eye swims a black dot.
A black fairy flies to the sky and smothers it black
Giant clouds roll and flood the earth.
Now I remember you like I remember the snow – thoughtlessly.
A sadness shaped like a cat
sleeps next to my cold stone-feet.
OF FACES ON THE WALL
The faces on the wall
are me –
three, eighteen, twenty-three.
The years have sped fast since then
to meet a dead end
at the shut door of the next room.
I live there now.
I don’t see them much
except while coming or going.
They keep waiting.
If faces on the wall could talk
I wonder what they would tell me –
Am I the person they wanted to be?
Have I let them down?
This, a quiet fear, grips me
As I hurry past them every time.
No longer photographs hung on walls.
Feel my hands against yours.
Feel them on your mouth. Inside it.
Tips of fingers, like flower petals
that close at the mere touch.
Words lingered there a moment ago
Words, like snow, have no form.
They only carve a space
Insinuate between bodies
Moving in ritualistic oscillation
Making love or marching to war.
On the table where the tea cup stands.
Like the tree at the edge of the earth.
With only one leaf.
Minerva is a 24-year-old doctor who loves to read and watch movies. She likes to scribble her random thoughts now and then, which sometimes mingle into poems.