Intimacy, The Non-Existent
We will be left unattended,
unscrutinized by
no-one other than ourselves. Still, I beg her
pardon, if I cannot meet her delusions of
perfection with even a murmur of common
resonance. I wonder if she is aware that her
piece of our puzzle wields a dagger—a blade
with the sharpness of tortured flame and the
sting of a desert wasp. I do not blame her,
but I am not deserving of a trial. There never
was a home, and never will be. The slope is
too uneven for the first brick to be laid.
Similar to the illusion of collaborative precision
simpletons conjure, the presence of a spark
is ignored to flicker on its own and eventually
meet cosmic death. We are made parallels,
strangers treading on either side of the shore,
and neither know of the other. And if we ever
come close, she will be the floor to my ceramic,
the gravel under my feet, the sliver of hope to
the terminally ill. She does not need to pull out
her knives; I already emptied the barrel of my
bullets. She leave doors open, I step on mine
to see my back riddled with transient holes
and her stare ever so vacant. I seek comfort from
her cutting silence and the scrape of her pupils,
and she—love for her is my silent disapproval and
the tinge of regret that marks both her soft palm
and my cheek. But we do not mind this charade,
for we are but children playing a game of
pretense we can never finish, and I commend
her for dealing the first decisive blow
when she spoke of the truth,
of her own truth.
---
This is a response to
Intimacy, Of All Things by Shubhs Shubhangi
No comments:
Post a Comment