Maps

Ronojoy Sircar performed "Maps" and bagged the second prize at "Conversations of Verse", an event organized in collaboration with Airplane Poetry Movement.

i was drawing a map the other day
to plot the way your
skin felt as it
grazed against mine
hoping against hope, that
it would lead me back to your scent
but halfway through
i found myself
utterly lost, in a rickshaw
being woken up by a lady
asking if i knew how to get to
a street where she grew up on,
my answer seemed to spread out
rolling from my tongue like
clouds
as she wiping away
blurry eyes
began to take my hand, and walk me out
it seemed pointless to try
to resist,
so i held her hand,
and slipped in between stationary cars, to
cross to the other side, and
as we lay our heads to the ground
on the divider between, here
and over there,
she pushed me off, because she felt
the sudden urge to hiccup, in
an empty room; is it silence,
if the only sounds i make when alone,
are to keep me alive? or should i have given up
long before trying to look for your
brand of sight
it’s strange really,
not at all what you would’ve wanted,
for
me to walk into your room that night,
and resist the urge to make it my own,
but
i didn’t, because you asked me not to
sit down so slowly, you said,
it made you aware of time
that we had lost in the transit, so i
leaned
against the cupboard that
we had spent days looking for
at kirti nagar, lit my cigarette
and watched you fall back asleep, and
the last words you said, as i began to draw circles
on the old parchment i carried to pin
you down, by location, lines beginning to
make sense, in their
intersecting passions, was
to make sure i don’t wake the
land-lady downstairs, when i
walk down the stairs,
with my unevenly placed,
heavy footsteps

maps
are useless after all, if you already know
where to go, and how to get there,
unless they could be drawn again, like breaths
having once left your body, transformed,
returning to singe the corners
of your mouth, leaving you breathless,
doubled up, holding on to your table
for support, as you wake up to
the door bell ringing, and your ink pen,
having rolled off, while you dreamt,
leaking on the floor, staining the rug,
he gave you, crystallizing the wool, with shades of
blue
creating patterns, that will be left untouched,
till you move again, and
are forced to ask for directions.

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