I loved to paint. The walls of my little room, thus Were dolled up with an exhibition of my art work My mother tells me that I spent Hours at the stationery shops, Buying paints, brushes, And every other pretty looking material To create my own little gallery of colour blotches. From stick figures to trees and birds It moved on to pretty, cheerful woman and flowers. Ten years and a few days later, I still visit my childhood fascination And see the brush kissing the white paper in broad daylight. It leaves behind a trail of red; Imitating us. Paper turned out to be a better absorber of my sorrow Than human beings. So when nights became sleepless, Days lonelier, And I, unhappier, I took to my friends and painted my distress, an orange sunset and love birds heading back home. The blue of the sky was amiss Because it was on my skin So when my blue body turned purple And your hand hardened, I held the brush in between my fingers That stung with cherry sweet pain, And painted The walls, the sketch pad, whatever could soak in My sorrow. Now when it has been seventeen days since You went missing, The walls make up for your absence For whose blood would have been redder To grace the reddish sunrise on the wall, dear husband?