curled fists fuse themselves

into the warmth

of clipped grass,

tension easing into loose soil.

inhaling the empty wind

of hell’s own kitchen fire,

you welcome it in.

it’s the wilting of lungs

you crave now.

a year ago,

when cool artificial air

saved you from twig-like

fingers and chins,

when the soft whistle

of a laugh was the only air

you wanted to breathe in.

closed doors, dark curtains,

reflective glass

and khus injected lassis

- a small incubator

for your open mouths

and his gentle sway.

now you listen

to the crackling of dried mint leaves

above glasses of aam panna,

hoping you could avenge

your lost innocence,

your past ignorance.

while the sun illuminates

your corpse,

you wish

you didn’t know

what it meant

to feel smothered

while breathing

virgin air.