AN ODE ON HIM

He is my insane poem 

in upper case, 

a cry not a tear and 

am his little red fish,

caught ,claimed and ruined.

This delicate asylum which 

I say "home" (but not )

is just bricks I count.

Inside the old oak wood chester

a bouquet of half bloomed roses 

with a card tucked

telling " I love you"

the words seem strange,

a song from a smokers throat.

You are claiming me 

like a pawn,

a fallen solider at its very 

second movement in the

black and white checks

where death hides.

All those poppie seeds 

you planted in the pink soil 

under my eyes are watered,

nurtured that their roots

now run in my veins and 

some times through 

an old, green fountain pen. 

You quote Gulzar at 3 am

and the cloud between us 

slowly rises, above your ego

and I fold myself into an

odd piece of origami

fitting in your palms.

My kohl lined fears 

draws colourless pictures

on the red Kashmiri carpet,

and I keep them silently 

with the stories in bookshelf.

The blood of pomegranate 

in your lips spreads 

elegantly on my neck

while I swallow my grief 

until I poison myself. 

With blood fingers I comb

my unruly hair, 

nothing but a blind dog,

playing the role master wants.

I dance all the holy dances

I never practiced, 

spoons in hands and 

cups in hips,

all the steps am supposed to.

I end the poems 

in a scream and then 

in silence: 

two out of thousand closures.

And when you put

scant pollen in my womb 

you repeat that you love me,

but am not that naive 

to know knife and flowers.

I don't know the width of 

your knife yet,  

nor its length 

but it will be fatal, 

I know.

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