the city has my marks-
like stains ;
they wont go permanently
but they fade with time.
on some days
when the weather is softer
the stains remind me of places
i have been
or
places that marked presence:
here is a corner in a bookstore
where I sat next to you
and read eliot’s wasteland

“and drank coffee, and talked for an hour.”
i read
you listened
time stood still.

the ashtray has the last cigarette
we smoked
its turned purple like my palor 
almost all the grass we sat onhas burnt to a dull brownliked brick cakes that were left in the shadefor too longforgotten 

i want an eraser
i want to go to all the places
we went
and erase every stain
that bears our togetherness.

love is not a word
it’s not an emotive quantification
for how often
how long
you and I were etched into skin:
tattoos of faith.
we promised eternity.

the lies I have told myself
lie on the left hand corner of this room
huddled together
brushed under the afghan carpet .
its not visible to anyone.
secrets are so hard to keep-
that’s what carpets are for.

breathing is an art
i mastered it
then i stopped breathing
i live in gasping
and some other raptures
now.

pristine existence –
i hold my head on the neck
with straight shoulders
an upright back
i’m crumbling within;
someone asks:
how are you?
i hear myself
screaming
i’m dying without love
i need to be held
and kissed
i want to see myself dissolve
in what was my right
love is not about affordability quasicinis
it’s about burning yourself
for a woman you cant breathe without.

I am well, thank you.

I answer.

…

Dee is from Lahore, Pakistan. Loves dark nights and old trees.