भारतीय

I look.
Page after page.
Unaware.
Why is my eye drawn as it is?
Although skin deep, skin is a factor. Maybe the factor.
Hair. Eyes. Smiles.
Respect. Calm. Personality. Humor.

Have I found a secret – illusive to others?
Am I the one who is free?
Though not eternal.
Brief.
Fleeting.
Never can be.
Never meant to be.

Cosmic, caustic love.
Achingly empty.
Less empty than nil.
Ringing loudly.
Ringing hollow.
Love me.
But not too much.

Emotions. Tingling skin.
Aching feelings.
Aching flesh.
When does each end?
Are there rules?
What if it proceeds unplanned?
Ad infinitum?

Where does the pain land?
Can it bilocate?
Split in two?
No saving of either?
No. Not splitting.
Duplicating.
Equal, yet strong, pain for both.

Stop me. Stop me now.
Before I hurt.
Hurt both.
Not knowingly selecting.
Knowing too late.
Break that most important.
Unable to cease before this point.

I am a moth.
So many flames.
Each one brighter than the next.
Flitting from one to the next.
Sometimes singeing my wings.
Usually healing.
Eventually.

Will I self-immolate?
Maybe it is pre-determined.
Maybe it always would have been.
Can it end any other way?
Maybe like a moth’s short life, I will self-destruct.
Only then will the cycle break.
I will be free and broken.

What others can see quite clearly
I deny yet know.
This life could never be sustained.
The gulf is too big.
The worlds in which we exist.
The lives we lead.
The futures yet to unfurl.

They are futures, not one.
There should be two.
There is no love.
There is nothing.
Companionship.
For a nanosecond.
Then it is done.

The nanoseconds fly and morph into seconds.
Then hours, years, decades until the end.
Fun had.
Time wasted.
Left Alone.
The strangers all long gone.
They lead their lives.

Was it worth it?
Meaningless days, weeks, and years?
Did I miss a life?
For a forget-me-not.
No – forget me.
A closing of the eyes.
The ultimate escape.

My soul corrupted.
My being now empty.
Compassion for self destroyed.
And all the flames extinguished or out of sight.
Most out of mind.
The last memories – some still warm.
Some figments of my imagination.

Now however. Right now.
I senselessly let myself ponder.
Of alternate universes.
My life not of my own.
Not from a belief or imagined closeness.
Or of a wish of intimacy with that light.
Perhaps a wish of intimacy with a who.

For now I will turn page after page.
I will be hollow.
Distracted from reality.
Seek comfort in parallel theoriticals.
Imagine a connection where none exists.
Hold on tight for an ideal life,
Lest I be blown away like the untethered feather must be.