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.
©sagnik_sarma