There is a snow white tiger that lives
in the Himalayan Hills; as beautiful & blissful
as an angel; red demons invading below
chasing the drone-king out of the land;
fat cockroaches filled w/ blood, spiral nests
burrowed into the old cottage walls
weaving combs of pink princesses like one
couldn't imagine; throttled & left behind;
from the visionary potter's wheel comes women in tribes
(my 49th de ja vu)
I have seen them from my hilltop hovel
where the young rugs are eating kibble-like manna;
this our Arctic ice shelter outfitted
w/ cool ice bar;
until the return of Dangun, quasi-quadruped
she hooves it over the hill & around the mountain,
Fuji screams---the lord's son returns
shield & sword in armored hand,
plate upon plate of bamboo;
thrilling to the end of the floating Edo world,
smartening up to be wiser than Confucius'
computer brains & bullet trains

she says
i want to read you like a book
pour your words over me like honey
and drown in their sweetness

i whisper
i’m sorry but i am not a happy story
my poems are often like trauma surgery
and i write words to close these wounds
with barbed wire stitches

she replies
i want to read everything you wrote
point out which scars pair with which poem
and tell me the story of how your flesh
was rent, shred and healed by time
show me how the edges of the tear
reached for each other and made you
whole again

There are things that are better left unsaid; like when I asked you to leave, you left, even though the tears brimming in my eyes were begging you to stay.
When the door closed shut behind you, I had to swallow the lump down my chest, get a hold over my emotions and carry out with my daily routine without a mere mention of your name.
And then, do you know what I did at night? When the house was empty and only the moon could witness my vulnerability from the open window, I decided to let it all out. Once and for all. I cried till my cheeks started burning because of all the tears that I harshly wiped off. I wanted to torture myself so I replayed the memory of you leaving over and over again in mind. I howled in pain while clinging onto your old favorite tee shirt which I gifted to you on your last birthday.
I tried to calm myself so I brushed my fingers through my hair, like you used to whenever I was anxious. No medicine could compare to the magical power that your warm touch possessed.
And the next morning I found myself lying on the floor with a broken bottle of whiskey. The broken shards of glass seemed so appealing. But I knew self harm wasn't an option so I tried to stand up and get ready for the day. I went to work, my friends made a jib about how my hair looked funny, they had no idea that you left and it was me who had asked you to leave. I couldn't control my emotions so I left for home.
But even at home I felt homeless. I couldn't control the tears, and I cried harder than I did on the night before. My plan of not shedding another tear for you failed miserably. I opened my phone gallery and clicked on my favourite picture of yours and talked to the inanimate object. Begging and pleading you to come back.
I guess your absence is nothing but my penance. Something that I must suffer silently and all alone.