Dust Where the Body Fell
written by: Aritra Basak
How shall this rented heart
dress for weather
without you.
A small wind—
wrong size for the sky.
Dawn—
petals opening into no one,
a house-post working loose,
a body
on the floor.
Life drags
It’s a chain of minutes.
***
Summer breaks its plate.
Monsoon gathers the pieces,
throws a sheet over the ceiling.
Stone calls
into its own hollow,
waits for echo,
gets
only
hands—
practiced warmth,
the center
cold.
Life and death change coats.
The seams split anyway.
***
A pause—
breath catches
in the throat.
Eyes catch.
Spark.
A sudden astronomy—
stars in the rafters,
in the pulse,
in the dust where the body fell
and hesitated.
***
How shall this rented heart
dress for weather
with you
inside the forecast.
A stream worrying the mountain
until stone forgets its shape.
A river
shouldered by two sure banks.
Light finding its dark,
hunger its plate,
an ocean mislaying
Its borders on purpose.
***
Vines climb the house,
take the eaves,
feed on the sun
until it sweats.
A boat misreads the depth.
Passengers rise—
one raw note—
and water
finishes it.
***
Inside the heart:
private climate.
Rain in one corner,
autumn in another,
bond and release
sharing a breath,
arguing softly
over names.
***
With you,
the dark forgets its job.
Edges lose their names.
The body thins—
a margin
around the unnamed,
and what remains
learns slowly,
to ring
instead of speak.
- Dust Where the Body Fell - May 24, 2026
