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Dream Life


Purbasha Roy
Poetry

I am in a dream where rooms open to rooms

The details: the walls holding consequences

of seasons. Floor stacked with clothes. All

jumbled within themselves. The dim light

of bulbs nudging the sick taste of air. Like

the smell of rust on kitchen-knife…

I am behind you and my steps crunch your

shadows. I am tired of this walk that sweats

us till our marrow. As I stretch my arms to

the cloth-piles to find something my size. The

cloth bare of warmth of any breathing body

inside, makes my fingers numb. I could sense

their shivers like fish-gills gasps. Watch this

happen you make a half-flower of your joined

fingertips on my forearm. Before I could take

my eyes off of them. Rooster wrecked my

dreamlife. You breathing smooth like seashells

beside me in your sleep. Then I track a discomfort

on my shapes and end up finding a temporary tattoo

on my elbow, your fingertips pressed against me

from a long unaccounted moment. I wondered how I

underestimated the skill of dreams break the fence

of tangibility. All of a sudden I stood on a bridge

joining banks of two worlds whose meetness is

as rare as cattle rearing in high fashion households

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