Manish Pathania | Author

Writer | Traveler | Artist



I do not remember much about her
-the precursor to all longing,
where the search began
many lives ago-

all emotions rationed away
for posterity
and all love kept at bay
for the next.

A crossword puzzle,
where all whites have been filled
with dreams,
and all blacks superimposed with tiny hearts
that dangle about that crooked smirk.

An omniscient oblivion
that knows all adorations
revolving around her in yearly cycles.
and keeps the count of
all lives moved on
in frustration
and all lives still stuck
in the unread messages.

but I do remember all the days
that I longed for her,
and then some
of the days
while lamenting some other transient
friend or lover
my thoughts returned to her
and somehow, it never failed to remind me
of all the strength
I possess to fuck my life
all over again
and come out alive on the other side.

I am more troubled
than usual
this time around, so I’d pass
the annual attempt at the tiny portion
of her attention,
but the search still continues,
and I keep bumping into the women that are
distant copies of her persona -self-sufficient,
or the demons I encounter,
are the ones that I bring along in
my own purgatory