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Remembrance

In the purple haze
that your memory
has curled itself
in;

I reach out to the
long, delicate
slightly punctured
hands,
which you called
love.

In love.
through the
linings of your
transparent skin,
I bend;
merge and murder.

Washing of the stains
I stumble upon
Myself;
scarred and scared.

I nurse,
the wounds.

24-Oct-2004

More By  :  Tripta Chandola

Views: 1403     Comments: 1

Comments on this Poem

Comment Hi,

Are you the Tripta I know from Ranikhet?

Ankit
23-Mar-2011 15:26 PM


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