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My Other Poem
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Satish Verma It was me.
Real not surrogate,
behind the words.
A way of lips, without
you, with few things to disengage
upon, what the agony demands.
On skin, a lump
was rising― straight
from the animal instinct,
discussing the religion of predators.
A manhood was
in peril, unregarded by
otherness. You want to collect the scars now.
Because you belong to me
like a moon to earth.
We both were moving in different
orbits, trying to touch each
other, undying, for sun.
It breaks the heart, when
it is moonless night.
