I Don't Much : A Twenty-second Birthday Memoir

To be reborn as your gaze,

The gaze that could fix me 

and pin me up against the wall

where I would hang 

Oh so loosely 

that when you would clap

with your little two hands 

On your hips

I would break every single knot 

and shatter on the floor

To reach out to you

with the trembling glass,

To steal just a single verse 

from your lips,

What a piece of art!

To be the mirror

that would reflect a ghost

The ghost that would not 

melt like paint thrown up 

against yellow wallpapers

And would shriek 

in the middle of night

To tell, 

No, you formless piece of being

Your arms do not melt 

while you walk down the streets

To be old and scratched memories

So that with one fine salt air

I would call them goofy 

And yet alive

I promise, if I wake up tomorrow 

on my bedsheet like these

I would rub my morning eyes

and whisper to you

Hey, I am fun

And I make Sisyphus happy 

But I do not forget 

with my naked,

drunk body 

spread wide 

I giggle,

Anyway.

Photo Courtesy : Meenali Khurana