I told her for the thousandth time
While our warm shadows danced
In a cold room that had caught fire.
(Not that I was counting or anything
But that's how the world works for the ones
Who have made themselves believe that
They are undeserving,
Even of their own love)
She smelled of rosewood and tears
When she, like an autumn leaf,
Opened her wings
And, before I could say anything else,
Merged with the darkness.
I still don't know why the flames,
When she left,
Started to bloom like autumn.
She had left a letter though,
A small one,
Under the bed lamp that had stopped working
After a bullet suddenly pierced its neck
And went on to shatter the frame
Of that black and white photograph
It wasn't there now,
The unfamiliar silences that exhumed
From the inconspicuous syllables
Written on the barren pages
Of her letter,
I burnt them,
Collected the jet-black ashes
And mixed them with honey and milk
To make ink out it.
I used that ink to
Write this unwanted poem;
But she isn't here,
Neither is her memory.