Satish Verma

The triangle― 
right-angled. Pythagorean 
I would never find the center. 

An absence gnaws 
at me. Standing in dark 
I start a talkathon with walls. 

Stoically, I reverse 
the numbers. Fires start. 
I am still reading the page, 
started before I met you. 

The poise, the serenity 
are gone. Masks are coming off 
there and now I embrace the burning well. 

Bliss of looking back 
at unreached peaks of pain. 
It is very cold. 
Now ice will not melt. 
You know who bled my poems.