Two musings.

Here. Have two pieces rescued from oblivion because I decided to put them *here* before the notebook they adorn the back pages of is complete, achieved, archived, and undoubtedly, if there's no escaping past precedent, lost in the mists of time (or the mess that is my room).


Craving.

On reading,
I crave
his mouth, his hair, his voice, his breath;
the 'intelligent light'
transferred from the bottle to the eyes,
the archness, the tartness
of that line,
the softness of the smile - his.

Craving is an ephemeral absolute:
It doesn't cease 'ere it consumes, nay, devours
me whole,

But then it passes.

A craving passes.

The memory of its toll, though:

It imprints itself so,
turning everything once touched, held, known
into itself.
It is the muscle memory of a phantom limb.

It becomes self and non-self in one aching
delicious
breath.



The Expert Speaketh

We agree only that there is a valley.
Mountains surround it,
and people live there too.
Are they experts or amateurs?
Does being born there suffice? Who
decides?
The Arrow shirt?
The parting in the chaiwala's hair (centre-right)?
Us and them.
You know, of course, that we're all just ordinary men.