With no God to Pray to, I Stand in Front of you again

By Vidyanshi Mittal

The last time you called crying on the phone, 

I didn't ask you what had happened. I’d known.

Every other night his alcohol instigated your hurt,

And you’d sob to me, your pain tainting your words into a blurt.

In some weird way, it brought you closer to me, 

Me to you.

On nights that he unpacked his bitter breath on your mother,

You were even more wounded. Understandable.

On nights that he spewed his hollow life onto you,

I had been wounded. Is that reasonable?

You cried, I listened, 

You sniffled, and I shivered.

Realization dawns on me,

The more you talked, the more I fell, it seemed.

Of course, though, it all was left unsaid.

Upon knowing, wouldn't you have fled?

Months go by like this,

He hurt you, I love you.

You ranted about him, I became enamored of you.

He killed some parts of you, you ignited some part of us.

You told me you like me, I bit my tongue.

Almost confessed that for you, I started to pray.

It felt inevitable till you called that day.

I thought I’d known why you called that day.

But because it wasn’t meant to be, I did not.

On the phone, I didn’t hear your velvety voice,

Instead, a gruff one that left me devoice.

“No use calling now.” Disconnected.

Confused. Shocked. Feebled.

Where are you? How are you? Are you?

Are you coming back?

He was drunk on his problems. I was drunk on you.

He enjoyed the bitterness proudly. 

I enjoyed the bittersweet disguised.

He didn’t want you. But I needed you.

Didn’t you?

Or did you not see it?

Or did you flee?

By Vidyanshi Mittal