‘When the plant sheds a leaf, the plant doesn’t die.’
But did I paste my roots on your veins and you were washed away in the twenty-ninth June rains, did I die?
Or my roots unglued themselves, and went along the pipelines that carries the dust of the terrace, my tears, hair pulled out in paranoia, the blood scratched out of my arms, the sweat of anxiety.
Did the roots, reach the gutter or slipped out from the broken end? With accumulated dirt and glue, now stuck to cigarette butts, unable to grow, flow.
But what happened to your veins, with burnt mark of my roots, a cavity of experience, you fill with words, of a single experience, again and again hit the words against the wall, till it breaks.
I realise I did not die, the roots, lie somewhere in the small lanes, I sit near the window endowed with leaves, brushing across my face, looking at the walls with my lazy eyes.
I marked as end of torment, I realise shedding the leaf makes me abject and that is nothing new. My roots now hang from hair and the roots pasted on you were yours all along,