When we are unthinking moths,
Lives depend on certain shields,
That cover the dazzling flames,
Calling us from open fields
The paper or glass protects
Our anxious, wispy wings,
From the promises of fire
And other such man-made things.
Sometimes we breach through the light
And we, fluttering, burn;
Because you didn’t screen the glare
And we could never learn.
Everyday people ask
“How are you?”
And I say,
“I am okay.”
I mention my body.
No broken bones.
No Covid-19.
No cancer.
Intact.
The inside of my heart though,
I wonder if I can talk about it.
Myocardium.
It’s said to be the thickest.
It has to be.
It houses abstractions.
Raw, mind-numbing wounds:
The fear of a future.
The betrayal of promises.
The neglect of hope.
The presence of love.
The sounds of monsoon birds
Silenced by “it’s not you, it’s me”.
Sensitive, burning, bloody
Awe
Of those who move on.
That part –
That part is not okay.
Every breath serrates it.
Like ice on a chipped tooth.
Like wires under nails.
But I can’t say this.
So, everyday,
I say, I am okay.
Maybe it is in the nature of love
To fall away like autumn leaves;
Yet I wonder before you step out now,
Who helps you roll up your shirt sleeves.
I reckon you can live all by yourself
And you no longer need love’s aid.
When spring whispers in after winter dies,
Maybe then fears shall be unmade.
Now, as the rain falls and memory cries,
I remember enough to mourn,
And, in a darkened corner, my heart tries
To piece back life this love has torn.
Hearts Still Care 
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