How quickly the day passes, even without you,
away from your presence, like an exile alone
the weight of memory’s the weight of your bones
as light as a flake of ash, as easily blown
off with the lightest of puffs. Outside, the curfew
is a beast poised to spring. The hours are a dark spell.
The phone won’t stop ringing. I tell them, I’m well.
This too will pass, right? How quickly the day passes!
You’re memory of memory - your teacup was still there
unwashed with the dregs. The comb with your tangled hair.
Life’s just a banyan with its roots probing the air.
That morning you drank tea. Nightfall, you were ashes.
They ask how? and why? how will I be? what will I do?
I tell them it’s okay. That I’ll cope. Without you.