Living Death

 
 
When will I know  
that I am  
as old as sack of  
bones, stripped of all  
there ever was  
of who I am  
walking down the path  
barefoot  
the day I was born.  
 
 
I can hear  
whispers and laughter  
strangely close; yet apart  
holding together by  
a silver thread  
between  
fingers on a hand  
no longer mine.  
*  
*  
*  
 
I saw them, again  
the sweet couple from Norway  
walk in from the cold, bundled up  
in the unfaithful February air  
looking for shallots to start a new patch.  
She wore her usual pink hat and rouge  
dark and sultry; reminding me of Sophia Loren  
and he seemed taller today all of his 5 feet frame  
holding her hand protectively, pulling her gently  
as he had pulled and her followed  
through dimensional photographs  
knowingly  
in silence and in verbosity  
but  
knowledge  
is a fickle thing  
ferments and thickens  
in steps and in the mouth  
muddling with curve of the light.  
*  
*  
*  
 
I combed my hair  
for the last time  
put on a yellow dress  
faded to a shade of runny yolk.  
The gloves on my hands  
tugged unnaturally on my fingers  
in an odd shape of ‘yoU’  
that too seemed to have faded  
burrowing color of dust  
from somewhere  
waiting too long.  
 
 
I sat on the couch  
in the silence of the room  
and  
verbosity of the mind  
in familiarity of the unknown.  
*
*
*
Wondering

Not every goodbye is an ending  
Not every ending is a new beginning.