4 AM conversation with ghosts of old lovers

Resemblance to the ghost of your being.
He is flesh and bones, only flesh and bones
and I stare at him, bewildered.
His eyes are amber, the color of tree resin,
volcano spitting passion,
the blood reeks of loss.
"Hello, good old friend.
Where have you been all these years?" I ask him
and I watch, as the recognition fades away from his face,
it is swallowed in dark thickening cracks,
like the claws of earth swallows all the life
sustained on its face and I stare
at his ash struck face.
I am waiting alone at Purana Qila,
and the sky is crying empty tears.
Suddenly, I am in a crowded street,
beggar children are caressing my hair,
weeping for me.

(c) Ayushee Ghoshal

Remembrance

Perhaps, remembrance is sickness,
to constantly think of forgotten faces,
a distant something of a rainy afternoon,
stroking your ruffled hair and whispering,
"say something" in a dim lit corridor.

A punctuation in the brief history of time,
a wretched attachment to remembrance,
I keep staring at blank spaces,
I hold the hand that stretches from the blind.
I return again and again to find you
standing by the shore,
the moon rises in the drunk glass of wine,
you part your lips to say something
but in an instant, years pass away.

What I can't touch, remains a memory
I am blinded by an imagined light,
A remembrance of what can never be.

(c) Ayushee Ghoshal