Life Itself

Shut the window what you see is not today. Those dreams, those sounds, belong to yesterdays. Draw the curtain, conceal your fear, obstruct your thoughts, pretend not to hear. That kiss, that smell that cushioned embrace, block those eyes constrict the space. Kill your senses, dont let them feel. Murder the desire, let wounds heal. Ease your past, soothe your grief, sense the closure, bow and leave.

I tip-toe down the stairs, trying hard to remain silent. Like every Friday, the house is enveloped in a wisp of chocolate air. I slide into the kitchen, she's standing near the sink. Hair smudged in flour, hands covered in sugar, busily mixing ingredients. I kiss her cheek without expectations. I tell her I am leaving, pick up my bag, and hurriedly say goodbye. I sit in my bus and close my eyes. I recollect Fridays gone by and each has only one thing in common, Chocolate. It's been twenty years now since her first chocolate. She was baking for him, with very little time, she cooked in her red chiffon dress. Even today she sits by the window chocolate by her side waiting for a man, long gone. and like her first mourning the chocolate is thrown away, uneaten.

You are my secret, dark, twisted and leashed. You are my horror kept inside, unseen. I shooed my thoughts, burnt the malady. I deafened my senses blinded my dreams. Then The radio-silence The tortured screams The clandestine pain The aghast belief. Erased? Maybe, will never be.