A line of fact better sown into fiction

You trace your finger
in the part of my hair
where the sindoor isn’t
and I feel the tip of your index
rest on my forehead
before we realize,
we’ve both reached the end.

I wish I could feel you like large chunks of chocolate chips that force my tongue to wrap itself around the large sweetness.

A whimper in a whine is my way to say
and offer me your chest for me to lay my head
when carrying all these thoughts has become

An idea of death, and the space between the very last breath was hatched onto a blank document. But one paragraph in, it refuses to take flight, and at this rate it’ll be buried before it’s dead.

The constellation
took form
but perhaps today
you should
leave me


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