Time is Not Air

Time is monstrous.
It nails the wings with love.
Love is not always air
to let you fly.
Love is tears that run dry and become ice.
You’re buried under that slab
Living and breathing
No one comes
No one goes
You lose your voice too.

You treat yourself dead
You pinch your skin
The smell is not like the dead yet
You try to crawl outside
Your legs are jammed in memories.

From your nails, the free worms grovel out
You see them gnawing your eyes
You let them
You want them to eat up all the remnants.

It’s a mercilessly cold darkness
Time is always dead.

Moumita Alam is a poet from West Bengal. Her poetry collection The Musings of the Dark is available on Amazon.

Featured image: Daniele Levis Pelusi / Unsplash