By: Garima Sharma

I am the one who sweats sadness
killing knees
and loneliness
on slow roads
did you hear?
when I erupted like a dying river?
on those blue sheets

my hair greased with horror
and navel burning with rejection?
my skin which was never perfect
sang Goosebumps
to my ears and the pillow in those far away mountains
I opened my legs
and saw nothing there
no world
no sensation
no life
no birth

but the back of your head
still remains
and your back too
in its winter jacket
on the wide roads
of the 8th city

I opened words
and photographs of destiny
of history
and bathed in the blood
of bodies not familiar
wrapped myself in the hair of women
on your torso
fucked the girl who moaned
and made a weak death with unlove

I still stand
in those mountains
in the cold water
in the sand of my womanhood
in the purity of my horror
in the longing of love

with parts that are tied to the surfaces of rocks
riverbeds
old trees
snake-roads
the sky
language
and the water’s character

burning under
the light of the mountains inside mountains
and the cool air of cocaine confessions
left behind in the rains of the dhaba
and quiet forests of lovemaking
of rooms with cigarette ceilings
and college blowjobs
ectopic pregnancies
and fuck buddies

and long distance phone calls
to be cheated on

I still keep time
alone in the acid haze of lines
and time turning back
in that bed,
drunk,
innocent
and waiting
for
some kind
of lover
to touch my thigh
softly

and not in diaries.

in a temple that was as alone
as I.