“And every where my hand touches
Imprints the idea of you.”
I worked on a patchwork quilt.
I started stitching it
The first day I met you.
If each seam and dart counted
For each time I wished you well,
I would not stop for the world.
Till the room seemed to be filled with the ghost of you.
Blinded by the ghost of you.
I swore I tried to start afresh.
But my raw aching fingers bled tracing an unfamiliar pattern,
And my new starched cloth, strangely, tore a jagged line;
Leading me further from who I am.
Till the room seemed to be filled with the ghost of me.