Kushal Poddar writes

Glass Bottom Eyes

Not a ghost
I can walk through and feel
a sigh saying almost the thing
I should not hear anymore,
not you, not you, you hit me
with your flesh and blood
and fine bone structure,
tilt your head, smile, and oh damn,
those teeth gnaw through a day.
 
This should not happen this way.
 
There should have been a corner of asylum.
A flurry of hurried light dashing and darting
with mad swirls, pulling and pushing us
to a nonexistent exit. No exit,
there should have been a screaming.
And I should have pressed you
against the steel door and held still,
my eyes two tunnels with mail train arriving soon.
 
And I should have died from severe hemorrhage.
 
I remember even
the details of your
short term memory loss.
I remember the tongue,
delicatessen's dark corner,
breathing boat and big fish
hitting its anchor,
remember the glass bottom of your eyes
and sea snake's uprising.
I forget my name.
Yours glitters on my skin.