Friday, September 18, 2015


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

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