Saying I miss you,

Feels unholy,

Almost blasphemous,

A preposterous presumption,

Of having had you,

When I never did,

You can make your exit,

For the rest of the play is mine to enact,

Visit me another day,

In a field of tiger lilies,

I could write a poem again that night,

Imagine your love in all ways one might,

Miss you in ways,

I have never even had you,

Conjure you a farewell,

That has been hiding in my bones,

A delayed, demented death of the thought of you as my own,

For I have my dad’s eyes,

That dare not get wet in your honour,

Love is violence, I fear,

Memory is hope’s cruel enemy,

And I am a maverick mortal,

Waiting for love letters and roses,

That were never written or planted,

The garden is barren,

The ink is dry,

And my amorous tale, with consumption,

Coughed itself to its mirthful end.


Image: BBG Tilak

Shriya Prasad

An English literature major living in a world where coffee is a magical health supplement, men are half as confused as women, orchids wither only after a month, four months of autumn and carpe diem or a less cliche version of it is the normality. In the end, all the art still matters.

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