November’s morning mist precipitates
Leaving the drenched newspapers at the main door.
The fuzzy wind grows gloomier
Mourning the tulips in the backyard.
Arrival of the noon and the sun above
Hit the windows, piercing her brown eyes.
The horizon shifts at the dusk
Dissolving in the evening tea, beside the lamp-post.
Canopy of the night
Branches out as a legend of disgust –
Words drop from the dead existence
As the ripened apricots
Abandoning the tropical winter.

He stays as the broken 1709-painting
In my empty house.
The tap water runs along the blue veins
Yet
The walls of love come down, one by one.
The dust begins to rise,
Her fingers bleed with unapologetic cuts-
Words drop from the curves
As their unkept vows
Burning them down alive.

The dust begins to rise.
She swirls with the storm,
Inside the storm.
The dry fingers bleed with the fantastic cuts,
The black heels break apart,
The head twists and turns
Like a chained snowball in a four-year-old’s hands.
(No whining, no complaints)
She swirls.
She twists.
She breaks apart –
Words drop from tips of the black hair
As the faded coral red lipstick
Leaving her puckered lips.

Remedial memories fall as the sweat droplets
From the corner of my elbows,
An arm branches out as a legend of disgust.
He feels as the cold knuckles
Against the dearth of existence
Of my pale cheeks.
Passion poisons the leftovers
Of a dreadful sight –
Words drop from tipsy-tongue
As the faded mauve silk saree
Falls off her droopy shoulder.

                                                                        ~Pragya Singh

                                                                           New Delhi, India