Shyamli - my petite

My petite,

my shallow petite

William Jones,

I am not … your girl.

Not anymore.

I am, however,

the unfeeling shore,

waiting,

Sandy dunes and all,

waiting, for another wave.

As I wait I feel the green

Lengthy vines sprawling,

Indolently yawing,

Over my bare bodice,

Trenchant, deep…

prying for something to thrive on.

Azure, the flowers,

now bloom

Over my body,

I wait,

Not for you.

They bloom still,

expanding and heaving

with every gasp that racks me,

As I bury you

in my grains

o’ white and yellow

and at times,

the crimson

Onto which I reflect…

your reminiscences.

I loved you,

And I never shall again.

My dunes are erupting slowly,

Embossing you with gold.

You are beautiful William Jones,

But you were a fool to believe,

(that) the clamorous silence was for a reason.

We are, presently,

in your car

and I can barely see your

non existentiality,

Or perhaps, it is probably

my lack of existence,

that simply deepens in your

wraithlike shadow.

And the wheels still turn.

I

am

not… there.

You were foolish, William Jones,

you never Were.

As I never am.

The dust,

I am just the dust on your temples

You lay on your dreams…

cloudy, dusty, dusky,

Dreams.

I never am/ was.

And thus, I never left you behind.

I just went slightly astray,

Clambering down the burrows

that haunted the fork,

we once reached.

I crawled,

to pick up the fallen.

The stray fallen bits,

of talk, of the conversations,

My solitary chronicle.

And thus, though I loved you, William Jones,

I never shall again.

The vines have embodied me.

I.

I.

Me.

No - one,

I am.