"No one notices how the steam opens the rose of each mind"

What if shows me,
The shadowy charcoal etching
I vaguely try not to see
That lives vibrant in your working memory
.
.
.

Of me.

If only you knew then, what
You know now, she murmurs purringly.

I interject:
Then perhaps, they,
Would care more for me?
What a necessary pity.

And she is left unfree.

Lustainability

Call me cold and unaffectionate but,
I think love stories based on
Bouts of passion after
Tenuous separation are, tedious

The magic for me, is the slow and unimaginative,
Everyday, in-your-face, living, breathing, exhaling
Acclimatisation, patience, sacrifice, confused silence,
Sudden realisation...smile

Feminist narrative

That night the lights went out. In a little corner that before towered over the other sensitive crevices of her heart. She wished it could function like a phantom limb and show some evidence of life long after suffocation but whenever she accidentally ventured into that blind pit all that she felt was quiet desolation, even years after that night. Ravi looked into her eyes at one of those moments and said, "Ah come now. We all grew up like that and we turned out fine. We're happy aren't we?". And she smiled that smile recognised universally by all women from patriarchal societies, a mixture of bitterness, grief, sarcasm and the tint of humour that kept her going every day, the humour of knowing that there will always be a reality within her, a truth, that no man will ever comprehend.

You are successful...

if you see this every day.