• sagnik_sarma 27w

    Panic Architecture

    you’re a cold affair today
    and incidentally i’m without a jacket,
    but i’m standing over a glistening wok
    with a quiet cook oversalting the eggs,
    i mustn’t stop the flow of his clockwork
    but i’ll wait for the merry men to leave,
    for whom hot food only satiates hunger,
    and i’ll watch his apron save him again
    when there’s no answer
    from the number on the argon advert
    and the sinews of his heart shred
    with the loud thunder
    of a moth caught in a repellent.

    my eyes can’t adjust to the dark
    so i hear pensioners coddling an obituary
    second of the two times that they felt love,
    if i was blessed with words, I’d say,
    the first was like the singeing of your finger
    stopping my match in its tracks
    and the rain felt like blood from an open skull,
    the residual taste of death and a kiss
    and a drop circling around your silhouette
    my vision tells me to shatter, quickly,
    because the blankets that have seen you
    won’t let me sleep.

    there’s a quiet aisle at the mall bookstore
    where great men belittle my prose,
    i lie there, nursing the nausea of my panic,
    If tomorrow,
    I find myself on the wrong side of a car
    only upturned as I am now,
    the chandelier high above, now a headlight,
    a blurry image of us, leaving together,
    on a happier trail of congealed asphalt.