The shadow of the latticed window,
falling and quivering on the bedroom wall,
is turning the memo of time, baring all.
Like then, the sunlight is still spreading on the cambric-batik bed sheet,
your smell doesn’t linger, it’s dank and languid.
The brass candlestick, that stood shining through
years of dining together, now stands discoloured, subdued.
Our restive time, in the hall, twenty summers and fall,
dusty, dissolved in acrid-humid unease.
But, the pile of your books still looks the same, neatly arranged in series.
The much-loved vinyl records on the handcrafted ebony
fated, never to return to the old melody
intoned as a mantra of elegance, stand oblique.
The stillness propels its shadow
across the expanse.
I dropped many heartaches without any resonance
picking fragments of designed moments,
in the motley of feelings,
losing a major key in the harmonics of happy happenings;
things are best, left alone
when someone you lived with, is gone.