Sycamore trees and an old jalopy. Rutherford is absent, stretch your legs.
Happiness is stretching legs.
Silence was wordless moments.The steaming
office buzz is silence. We were all stuffed with bloody ganache , bitten,
licked clean. Harakiri- with pencils. Sleeping 8 hours is healthy.
Waking up to 8 quakes is jarrring.
Insomnia nibbling, sleep withdrawn ganache filled puffs. For 8 nights screaming,
for 8 nights scared, almost a ritual till you subside.
I will learn next year “How to get past”.
Tomorrow shave of your hair. The vestiges you leave
on toilet seats- Black, white, stringy- to be thoughtlessly flushed away.
Some stinky dipping some superimposed flickering lights from one window
side to other side. Rushing through incomplete surfaces what images
can one provide?
A certain sliver of a certain surface.
Tonight sit with scissors. Or a razor?
Indian Literature | Author | Stuti Chandra | Visit Indian Review to read more literature of authors and writers you love to read …
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