I try to explain what you’re like and I do it the way Proust
describes rain: musical, innumerable, universal. Everything is reminiscent of you.
A face in each moving car. A strand of hair in every dish. A rustling of leaves
Or wings or pages turning. A footstep on the winding road, which is either coming or going.
I have forgotten which already. Lately, I’m always in between—you and the next thought
of you. In the morning, before my feet touch the floor my mind reaches for you.
In the night, you are the charm of arms, warm as the kiss of an open mouth.
Whatever is absent in me, is present in you. Whatever is intolerable about me,
is made tolerable through you. Yet, it’s strange we suffer in spite of this!
The truth is, we are only hints of dust or one hint of dust.
Who’s to say we’ll still be alive when anyone is reading or will
ever read this poem. Time grows life inside the body.
And life kills by growing time inside the body. What else is there to say?
Death like love can never be prepared for, is instant and permanent.
Everything will end and when it ends. I know where I want to be,
in love, in love, in love…
Christ Keivom (he/him), is currently pursuing his master’s in English Literature from Delhi University. His work has previously appeared in Novus Literary Arts Journal, Mulberry Literary, Monograph Mag, Write now lit, The Chakkar, Farside Review, Spotlong Review, Agapanthus Collective, and Native Skin to name a few.