inside

Siya Gusain, India

ⅰ
my fingers feel soft along the windowsill,
a rhythmic motion that holds her veil, faded
and sweet, air-like wood falls over the edge,
ever-present and reliable, she is a lover of mine.
I remember her presence more than her and
my selfishness cannot deter her. I command,
with bags in each hand and she sits beside the
fireplace, strings lost in palms and
my eyes stray further each day and I am lost in
between moments of search, of despair, but she
does nothing but radiate from corners and walls.
a part of me cannot do anything but hate it.
what is the price of your loyalty? your love?

ⅰⅰ
I see the ends of my eyelashes, black streaks
against white, mistakes personified, barely
observing the stretched canvas, I let myself dim
all over, I let myself pass into the abyss, ever numbing
and crisp and waiting, waiting, waiting...
I already counted them. six silent shed trees,
withering and mocking, they stand against me—with me—
together still, glancing like stray partners or neglected memories:
six silent shed trees that do not know her, the she inside,
isolated and abandoned like a hurricane in a trance:
helpless and tired and lonely. they wouldn’t like her borders,
her red, her scratches. I can’t blame them/I can’t defend her.
she is nothing if not flawed, I am nothing if not protection.

ⅰⅰⅰ
it can’t be long now. the Earth is warming up again and
my soul, magnetized and mystic and marvelous, is calmed.
I suppose anything can calm you if you’re not used to it.
I am not used to her, or her yellow hurting my eyes before
making love to my soul and it is all I can do for comfort, clutch
the edge and sigh, attempt to taste her and her intensity in all
her glory. I run my tongue across my teeth and feel the light creeping
in, soft and adamant and invasive. as always, my breaths resist her.
as always, they fail. gold powder smothers the corners of my soul and I am
thrust into Saturday mornings and blankets...oh mother, did you know that
dust can shine? light up like fairy mist and blind your heart through and through?
nothing says unsafe like familiarity. and so I let her take me back to yesterday and
last month and the year before, I let time whistle through my insides until stories
submit to stars stuck in storms, my soul is rearranging, the light diffusing.
is it already time? no, please...please, my love—
she does not listen, of course. she never does. I feel something
on my cheeks: wet and forgiving are my tears, lending me company
through the end. I close my eyes.
I’ll love you till warmth, she had said, soft into my skin,
and so I remain standing in white sheets, shivering.
my dearest, how can you not see her? how can you not see me?
goodbye is all you spare me, my soul evanescing more each time,
flickering into the wind after you. Another day and I’ve learned
nothing. I am tired. My bed calls for me and so does she.
till tomorrow, darling.

Siya is an 18-year-old Indian poet that enjoys all kinds of literature. When not found reading or writing, she is likely practicing her other hobbies such as art or music. She has only recently started applying for publications and was Aster Lit Fall 2021.