For the days, I can’t write

There lives a man inside my neck.


I chew out my words and feed you,

Till then he wraps himself in set of bones

And grumbles till I stop speaking.

Those days he sleeps.


You sleep.

He pens his eyes open

And saunters across my mouth,

Like a dog in an open field.

Those days I face my neck

And speak to him

If speaking is a time-pool of sighs and sobs

A closing tongue, a path to the highway.


I chide him

I long for you


But other days, I want to dilute myself in my own mouth

Till I could say nothing

Of what you can’t anyway, conceive.



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