I often think of
time, its paradoxes,
non-linearly, when I
think of you, broken,
fractured into shards,
before you evolved,
and then chastised,
castigated, criminally
misunderstood when
your mistakes taught
you, they say, you get
what you deserve, but
I ask if you deserve
what you get, I ask if
that pain inflicted, when
you’re writhing in the throes
of an abusive childhood
are the welts of a later
dysfunctionality, degeneracy,
youth flushed down a toilet,
for the mess we become,
perhaps that’s how time
thinks, a door finitude
cannot open, you came to me,
drunk, after he left you, and I
said no, but then came again,
alluring, attractive, regaining
control, and I’ll be vain enough
to say I looked great too, and must
poetry describe each hushed
cadence to the beauty of each
felt or unfelt touch, electrifying,
invigorating, revitalizing, but
then you flipped your coin and
left India, riddled with corruption,
and I’m stuck, sitting in this car,
punching poetry on my phone,
seeking, yearning for
a place, a space, with or without
you, away from the rhetoric and
political truth that slaps me everyday,
and I can’t help but think of you.

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2017)

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