The Stills Of The Moving

By Snigdha Mishra

the leaves of the begonia have turned a tawny brown as you always cautioned me they would,

the deep wine stain we left on that lavender rug won’t go away no matter how much i try, the uneven, slightly ugly mugs we made together in pottery class sit atop the dishes like kings of the world, as they rightfully should,

the polaroid of you with that funny hat still hangs on the wall, albeit a bit grainy and faded than before,

the pile of my unfolded clothes keeps getting bigger by the day but i don’t have the energy in me to put them away,

the wooden floor still makes that creaky noise when i walk over to the kitchen no matter how much i tip toe around,

the record still plays the tunes of REO speedwagon and i can hear you call them sellouts from the other room while i roll my eyes and scorn in derision,

the kettle still wakes up the whole house with its siren-like-whistle every morning, even though there is no one to wake except me anymore,

the wild ringing of the wind chime heralds the arrival of another harsh windy winter,

the faucet leaks the same way, making its presence known drop by drop like a persistent member of the family,

the pashmina that used to make your skin itch for some god forsaken reason still lies on the side of the bed waiting for a taker,

the pearl necklace you gave me for our fifth anniversary hangs around my neck as a remnant of your presence on my body,

the hands you left desiring for more of your touch for the rest of their lives are busy picking out flowers to take to the cemetery for you,

the elements of life pause for a moment but go on like callous spectators on the streets but the stubborn spectre of love lives on in them all like the souls that built it too

By Snigdha Mishra