You would tell it's her way of loving. I don't think she distinguishes it or keeps it as a thing, booklet, or her medicines. You don't remind her every time nor does she lets you remind her of the times she loves and the times she despises you. I tell her (now the count is in thousands) to not insist on having meals on time with food that induces sleep. Pickles. Papads and everything spicy, sweet, oil, and ghee. Missing her is happening to find a condition and inability to find it.

-

-

what you'd shed
you've shed 
-you're greener still.


how do you see, you ask
spanning of the summer
from the spring?


in sadness that lingers
but you are 
no longer in grief.

-

O' Narmade

-

you are the dent
on my middle right finger.

I have written a lot,
I do still write
I will be writing.

you'd be amassed
in pain, numb

and nowhere
actually.

-

this poem is aborted

potent enough,

cannot be started.

-

pre mature moon 
in an evening sky.

you ask 
who'd lend it 
the light?

it prawls around
the day

over darkness 

not meant to set in

-

You is not somebody
You is not someone


You is not "myself"
You is not me 


They are not "you" 
Theirs is not "you"


who are you dear so special
haven't you know yourself?

-

-

I get scanned sometimes
how much can pass through
really.

-