Memorising warmth is a thing 
only poets and lost lovers do.
They sit on the floor and search 
for their hands for the mundane act 
of grabbing a flower.
They plaster forbidden kisses 
in their mouths making it 
a grave and a temple 
at the same time.
They wait for the next season, 
the pilgrims of hope,
only to find their hair turning into 
the colour of a loap sided smile of tears.
They have been skinned noiseless 
inside a bath tub,  and have been
sinking silently without any complaints.
They have been the feudatories 
of half awake prayers 
which angels used as their heel straps 
while marching towards resurrection.
Parasites of paradise, 
they crumble like unused eulogies, 
when questioned about plans for future.
With their fingers painted in dark blue,
they wish to articulate 
how shameful is survival sometimes, 
without a will to breathe.
Inside their pulmonic pockets, 
grief follows them 
with the eyes of a stray dog 
 that it becomes difficult for them 
to talk about the smoothness of sunlight 
over an avocado fruit.
They belong to charcoal countries 
with sea blue eyes where 
restless eagles fly to 
escape cannibal trees.
They sell their sanity to pay taxes 
inorder to sleep comfortably 
inside an architecture of loneliness 
with their finger crossed.
And like cockroaches,
they move in the dark, 
even after losing their heads, 
even after being called as disgusting.
Lost lovers slowly alter into poets.
Poets slowly transform into lovers of losses.
Memorising warmth is the only thing 
poets and lost lovers do.




PROMPTS USED: 
Lost lovers by Khatija Khan
Architecture of loneliness by poemsindia

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