Satish Verma

The night had dumped 
the moon on the hill. 
I was going to drop your name in rose bushes. 

Sleeping alone was a torture, when 
anxiety shows its fangs 
in drooping lids. 

Mysterious calls come, 
from nowhere, when you were standing 
on the sharp edge. A crisp decision 
had to be made. 

You become gold, without crying 
and expose yourself 
in dim light― where day and night meet. 

Who will talk 
about the final descent, 
when you will deceive yourself? 

A soap bubble was 
shooting skyward.