Where did you hide our love, darling?
At the top of that snowy mount you scaled?
Or in the depths of the river you rafted in?
Or was it in the dank silence of those ancient caves-
The greens of the valley you camped in,
Or in her arms as you both gazed at the Milky Way
in its starry vast glory,
Where did you hide our story?
I wonder if it's too much to ask about
where the deathbed of our love lies,
I wonder if you'd tell me so I could wish it
one last goodbye

It's just awkward when people ask me what I write about

More so when they're still
Expectantly, quizzingly blinking
After I've already answered them with,
"Anything and everything!"

Why do you worry?
You are the muse, while I-
merely the flame,
that he'll use to light the dark
as he sculpts your frame,
and then extinguish with ease,
while chanting your eternal name.

When you uproot a poet, you ****** away her 'self'
Because her self is enjoined to the soil beneath her feet,
With tendrils she seeks sustenance from her land
And blooms into songs of love and promises to keep
When you rob a painter of her colour palette
That shone messily but beautifully of the hues,
Of saffrons and greens merging together and seeping
Into the brown of her skin- the only colour she knew,
You turn her hands into barely-there phantoms,
Unable to create a canvas of her heart's song,
Jarred by chants of 'who are you?' 'where are you from?'
'do you belong?' 'prove you belong!'
How does she prove her belonging to the cradle
That birthed her, that housed her,
Whose elements are admixed with all her blood inside
How does she profess her allegiance to that earth?
It is as if being exhorted to prove she is alive,
inhale, see!, exhale, see!, I breathe, see!
It is as if being wrenched by her limbs to gauge their depth
the pulse in my arteries, see!, these crimson rhythmic spurts, see
O my land, I bleed with abandon;
O my land, I bleed in poetry for thee.