The wax of my life’s candle has melted
and I find myself utterly incapable of reconstruction.
Childhood traumas drone over my head:
my unhealed wounds bandaged with makeshift dressings.
Watch me attempt to replenish the veil of my hope
and fill this heart with alluring tenderness again.
You had whispered once:
“You possess no other skill but to douse in love,
anyone and everyone – angels or enemies.”
But love is better, more peaceful
than the thirst for vengeance
that Heathcliff nurtured till his death:
you will be left with nothing.
In the messy trench where hearts are hurled,
on closer inspection, you will find
my quixotic heart floating too;
Which pyre will be suitable to roast all the letters
penned and glued with the costliest adhesive in town
by a renowned scrooge, only for you?
I can share with certainty, you will declare this piece
as another puerile work of poetry.
Even though you’re an egregious liar,
we’re finally on the same page here.
Look at which forlorn juncture,
we’ve both agreed for the very first time.