Home

I sit in my crammed balcony,
The birds sing in short trills
Or caw.
It is calm,
Except for the constant clamor from a construction site in the distance.
Another morning dawns,
And there’s a chill in the air.
I watch the sun rise from the unknown –
A yellow – orange orb wreathed in clouds.
I breathe to take in the fresh smell of the morning and a kitchen already busy.
Thoughts of a new photographs slip into my mind.
And then, a harsh word from behinds jerks me out of my reverie.

There’s a cold that woolens cannot warm,
An anxiety that doesn’t seem to leave,
A heaviness in the chest that cannot be explained,
Regrets for the past and a future already known.
Regrets that don’t change a thing, but don’t leave.
Sadness at inadequacy,
Of what was but isn’t anymore.
Thoughts of efforts not made, and of lethargy that swells.
Days of awkward meetings, awkward smiles, and quiet disappointments.
I look at the church, and think of what the night would have been.
The moonlight and the stars.
I look around me,
Bare walls, and softness that doesn’t comfort very much.

I look at our photograph, and I smile.
Remembering how you hated to be photographed at all.
How you liked this photograph once, but don’t like it anymore.
I never understood why.
I look at the little parcel of cloth, wrapping something as if it were sacred.
And I’m scared of the scent that might fade.
I fear the memories won’t burn even when I want to remember.
But will remain as dying embers.
I’m not trying to escape into your presence,
The effort will still be mine,
The lack of which haunts me now.
But there was something when you were here,
Content of happiness.
And now, I want so much to run away,
Run to you,
When I know I cannot.

You still feel so much like Home…

* I’d like to thank Saptarshi. The last few lines are from his poem “Home is where…”
I realise it's pointless to mention, but the last line although published by Saptrashi first, is still my own. I've said it too many times before.