Notes on an Evening
In another world, I walk along a pier in a city that isn’t mine. The darkness reminds me of some kind of worship, and the water - liquid and fumbling. The first time I’d experienced winter was in an abandoned park, and the light closing itself into a coffin. How strange, this memory of stars. Little winks from a distance you can’t scale. And my eyes: only an instrument, empty, lacking, lagging. The ocean - far-off. The sky - a lifetime away. The raspy whispers, noise, pearls, and the town that set itself on fire. I’m so limited to my bone. The cold, embracing, like something that doesn’t love you back. We’d known this before, felt this before, waiting for words from a mouth that is turned towards another cup. The silence was never a virtue. My mouth, sewed with a fabric of glass.
![](\images\issue4img\sverma_poetry4.jpg)