Hyderabad: 18 July 2022: I’ve got a lot of things to tell you
But I can’t;
you’re not here—
—you’re there, whatever there means.
So, I tell it to the moon.
Scream it at the ocean.
Speak it softly to this block of stone
that has your name carved on it—
it’s not your name, though,
not the name I used.
I wish the world didn’t look like you;
chaos and beauty in everything I see,
too close, too much, too soon.
gentle touches crush against me;
petals, fresh scented, fall hard as rock.
I can break a bone and recall the sensation as fondly as making love to you.
A butterfly landed on your headstone;
brazen as a rich man’s daughter.
Posed it’s precious wings;
such a fragile thing,
it is, to be beautiful.
Some might say it was you
reaching from the afterlife—
using devilish tricks
on unsuspecting insects—
Maybe I was supposed to die,
on the spot, of maddening grief;
my carcass an offering to
you, the old god that left me heathen.
If it was you,
beating the heart of that creature,
tricking its wings in my direction:
Don’t send me a metaphor
when I need salvation.
Don’t send a cryptic Schmétterling
when my heart is breaking,
Don’t hide behind pretty things
when I need ugly answers.
Come as a ghost next time,
or emerge from mausoleum earth,
a cadaverous creation
of Mary Shelly—
and face me as a monster.
It fluttered away, fickle little thing,
wings folding my universe
with each flap, supping nectar,
haughty and proud—
—flower to flower, to flower—
Perhaps it was you, after all?
And the flowers smile,
at maddened minds,
doomed to never find
peace at graveyards.