Of Hearts and Empty Wallets by Abhinav Dasgupta
I’ve been without love
for so long
that I’ve forgotten
whether it tastes
like storms or
sunflowers.
A broken shoebox
rattles weakly
under my bed
with ribbon wrapped
remains
of what love used
to look like-
red hearts and
pink photo frames
but they are
more friendly with
dust
than my fingertips.
When you live
with the absence
of something
for too long
you learn to let
its ghost
make a home
in your stomach
and then you
lock it inside
and close the curtains.
I can’t remember
if love
looked like
sunny April mornings
or drenched July evenings
I can’t remember
if love
looked more like
my mother or
my father
There is
a cemetery
under my fingernails
that is encrusted
with the eulogies
of a love
that can’t be
scrubbed out
My friend tells me
that there is no way
that I can run out of love
that I’ve only
hidden it away
under a heap of old sweaters
behind my withered books
between the pages of
the diary that I’ve left behind
and that it’s waiting
for me to come back
and retrieve it
She says
I can still make it rain
but she doesn’t realise
that an empty pitcher
pours a void
and nothing else
I tell her
that everything has a reserve
and that when you
spend too much of anything
without being spent on
you are left with an
exhausted wallet
with soggy old pictures
and an exhausted heart
that finds it easier
to bleed
than to love.
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