When a Dreamer Met a Realist | Likhitha M

What time is it?, you ask
I say, it’s twilight.

You are still filling up the cracks,
In our fractured portrait;
Erasing my foibles with each stroke,
You embellish its unfinished edges,
Redraw our golden silhouette,

I’m still writing poems,
In the shadow of your soul;
I find tapestries among the stars,
Retracing the curve of the orbits,
Chasing the crimson red of the sunset;

“You’ve got your head in the clouds”, he laughs

What time is it?, you ask
I say, it’s midnight.

I am mapping the corners of your turgid heart now,
I trace the labyrinth of your veins,
Seeing several unfinished portraits along the way;
Your ersatz words slowing my stride;

Will you finish ours?, I almost ask
But in one tenebrific moment,
Your ebony eyes fade into oblivion,
Leaving only your masterpiece behind;

Dawn settles over the detritus of us;
I am building a citadel of scars,
Each brick evocative of our twilight;
Your masterpiece hangs on the walls of my heart,
Complete, grandiloquent,
Its edges-fuliginous, time-tested,
Its lustre-slowly petering out.

Indian Literature Magazine | Author | Likhitha M