The body in the bed is just a shape of stone, A warmth I once called home, now I am alone. The echo of a promise in the space between our sheets, A language of forgetting in these solitary streets. You trace the patterned lies upon my patient skin, A script I couldn't read, a game I couldn't win. Each "I am fine" you uttered, a brick within a wall, I watch the silent building of my solitary fall. The cruelty is the normal, the coffee cup, the kiss, The meticulous architecture of such calculated bliss . You are a careful craftsman of the hollow and the deep, A secret you are keeping even in your sleep. This is not a shattering, a single, bloody break, But the slow and steady weathering, an endless, dull heartache . To hold the hand that holds the knife, a most peculiar art, To be so desperately lonely with your own heart pressed against his heart. Alpana Saha 19TH November 2025💔
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