Bright eyes
Butter-skin cakes tender
All life
Resting on the tips of
Two fingers
That never meet… A theorem with variables
Infinite
Tearing Apart The Marionettes
Of our delicate
Theatre
Sublime Sounds
Of birds and words, profound
Float on the surface
While life drifts on away
Under
This fabric of white lies
Where bone sacks sit
Splitting the chair into splinters
Piercing glances
Looking for a Mirror
And seeing me instead of loving
this wonderful gift, we once were given
Now pretending to rot
In order to drink a glimpse
Of our living attention

…
Ashima used to think that poet and lover are two words for the same being. Upon discovering  that they are not one – she no longer identifies as anything, save – that she is a 33 year old woman who lives in New Delhi, India.