All of My Days

All through this day, I have been wondering

about despair. Watching TV on the mute, and

thinking about the seventeen scars on my body, remembering

how each of them came to be- falls on cricket grounds, learning

to skate, that one time when

you threw a dish at me. It has been more than a

thousand days since…since…

Watching the TV on mute is a good thing, you

can ignore it, and can go on reading, or writing, or

thinking. You can stare into the whorls of dust

moved by the fan, and be catatonic.

Sometimes, I try to write this stuff down, tell you

what I feel, about you or for you or…sometimes,

I lay wake at night, trying to collect words into a beautiful

poem, which, I often hope, would rend your heart. But I fail, nothing

seems to be more anti-poetry, than efforts to write. All that I feel

grows inside me like a giant mushroom cloud, leaching on my insides,

your absence, the inability to write, and the anguish of

not being able to express any of it. And every such moment I realize, the

best of those poems of desperation-cannot be written. Poems

of despair are only to be felt.