it’s a lonely night, a simmering one
short breaths against the white pillow,
and burning palms gripping the forearms
to lose some heat, to wear it off… to not have anything to do with it.
something is violently ticking under the white pillow,
faster than an alarm clock, catching up with an explosive…
the heart, heavy and plump like a water balloon
tonight, doesn’t know
if it will shrink or explode.
all touch’s poisonous, even curling up of his little palm around his mother’s index finger,
to feel safest
everything that was safe is seized…
with no touch, all that voice and language ever had
start to wane,
a strange curse,
of losing the ability to touch the one you’re losing, forever
they survived while she came wrapped in an impassable cloak
a mother, in a matter of few days, became poison
the home’s gotten paler and quieter, the wave never left for them
they now live under the wave
Rachit designs and facilitates immersive leadership programs for young people in India. He has been engaged with a number of social causes and has been published by several national and international literary portals. Currently, he lives in Meerut.