Poetry

Your absence was left beside me
for the white salt,
unsolicited, unbroken wants.

Asking to return
the dried roses
pressed between the pages of talking book.

Counting only the dying fireworks
the hissing sparks,
left in the unwrapped bones and skin.

In my solitude I reach your smell,
your lips still warming my vessel,
my drink.

Vindicating the tarred hurts,
the never name,
and twisted lyrics.


Satish Verma