You were the guest
at my table
picking on the corners
of the table cloth,
fingers nervously
folding and unfolding
mutilated pride.
You watched the candle
flicker, as restless
as your hands—
trembling, casting
shadows visible only
to those who sat
on the edges of the paroxysm
that quivered and coughed,
cleared its throat
as if ready to explode
but was caught instead
on minute fish bones—
too sharp for
a smooth conversation.
© Neetu Malik
I tread softly
in your world
mindful of my footsteps
on the fragile glass
of your emotions
fearing the crack
one little slip could cause
breaking my own heart
without blows
without words
in a silence
deeper than
death
© Neetu Malik
tonight
the silk moon weaves me
into its silver streams
the day
creased and gritty
washed, dried
folded away
this moment
I linger in solitude
caressed by that moon
so perfectly round
eyeing me through
the window
a wink
I think I perceive
the acceptance
lulls me slowly
to sleep
© Neetu Malik
don’t tell me how much
you love me, not now
when days are fragrant
with lavender
and the earth’s pulse
throbs with the beat of every heart
and I hear yours
make no promises when
the scent of moonflowers
rides on the night breeze
through the window
wait until fluttering wings
have flown south
the sky is muted
and snow has padded
the ground
until the air wears
a winter shroud
tell me then how much
you love me
on the longest night
and if you’re still
by my side
© Neetu Malik
November draws me
into bleak arms
I wonder where the leaves
have gone—
though I know, yet I walk in
nameless hope
of miracle
in this ghastly fog
so dense, so deep that
I am lost
stepping on crumbled
autumn stalks
I remember your face
with wisdom drawn,
how it still shone
after its light was robbed
but now there’s just me,
the part that’s left of your artery
the purple sunset a reminder
of approaching dark,
who I am and how
mortal we are.
© Neetu Malik
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