By: Ruvindra Sathsarani

The darkness, sings
In
Occasional chimes
of how you cannot
coincide
with the saving of
his soul, and it isn’t
simple
to wave your hand in
air and tell
the world how
an explosion
somewhere else
was staged, stamped
and launched, in seconds,
and reason out
why
there were few drops
of blood
on your palms.

Oh love! Your face
resembles
to that exactness
which I tried
to forget
of things and thoughts
made of
atomic
particles
displayed on
yellow-lit windows.

Your thoughts
in syllables
Making dust lines
On the windowsill
I cannot wipe them
their mirth
rings and echoes
inside my brain
mimicking
that wavelength
of discovering,
the senses leaving
your body.

As you try hard to restore
The concept
called
Loss
Originality was a mistaken concept
But where is the past?

###

Ruvindra Sathsarani is a postgraduate student of English Literature currently living in  Tübingen, Germany. Her poetry has been published previously on Eastlit and Primrose Road Poetry July Scents.