When the silence screamed loud.
‘Nuff to let the clock bespeak its voice,
Arose another competitor,
Wrestling well with the clock: the lovelorn snuffles.
She sobbed as hard as she could,
But not letting herself in there-
The ‘abandoned’ home,
Which wasn’t anymore home
She was drawn in ‘there’ but,
Despite her labored recoil,
And despite her habitual resistance.
She was, though.
Aw, she was, though.
She couldn’t help
But live her home again,
Sniff at her emotion-dumped home again;
The home full of memories-
Of their first late-monsoon meeting
Of their informal dates that ensued there-after
Of those nascent like-to-love days
Of the laughs that complemented each other
Of the cold nights ablaze with their love
Of their kind of stumbling dance alcohol choreographed
Of several other days and nights better felt than squiggled
Of the bygone times lived often, and only, through ‘last-nights’.
By Prerna Daga
The poem was originally published here