Truth be told, the endless spark
of pain that jolts me awake each
morning is as indispensable
as the morning itself: sharp blade
of blue, through the trees
the most intricate commandments.
Days are long; the months bring
with them a repetitive grief. I tire
but keep interest in our routine–
the ants of September, memory
of violence, anticipatory anxiety
full flush. In the sun, it is difficult
to believe that summer is gone.
What is this now? this drawn-
out sigh, the curtains meeting
shyly at the window. As lovers
once we were wild but this year
we find our hands writing
small, tame letters that motion
towards the sky but never
speak the name of love.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ADITI NAGRATH is a poet, art therapist, and part-time monster based out of New Delhi, India. She believes that the only way out is through. All of her poems are dedicated to you.