Absence
Beside her drifting smile I sit
The scent of going has been long knit
From broken bones to memories fading
Demon from dear the days go making
The wet towel and the damp shadow of death
My facade of strength and shallow breath
Her skin creasing with every touch of mine
The same spotless, breathless white from ’99
Night is fickle, mellow is noon
Dinner cold and lunch too soon
My heart is away and afraid to see
That which was and is yet to be
— Pratik
(This was written shortly after I spent an evening, probably one of my last, with my maternal grandmother who was ailing at the time — dimentia. She was my favourite and I know I was hers)
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