A day, a week, a month
Or a year at best
And your memory won't haunt me,
The dark veins won't follow me to sleep,
The betrayed eyes won't hunt me down,
Your feeble voice won't ask questions,
The smell that you wore for 11 months, 
the blood that you puked, tears that you shed
The sound of cough that kept you awake,
Won't knock my doors anymore,
I will walk away from all of it,
Disowning the womb which I put on pyre.

Anti-social

I am not clever,

never was, never would be,

When I traded the bylanes for flyovers,

I tried hard to be one,

to be accepted,

So that my words weigh in,

makes one believe me,

find meaning in my truth.

I've spent a decade in wilderness,

wild, hungry and sleepless in this concrete city,

Now I am just tired of this perceptions business

The only thing I can manage with much difficulty

is an appealing half-baked smile,

No, I don't even wait anymore

for my mime to be deciphered.

Because they are hollow,

there is no meaning in them.

I am just happy being a mute,

Too happy to be a ghost in the corridor.

Like these imprints on sand,
I too shall be forgotten,
left untouched in the old belongings,
in store rooms and ancient trunks,
like leftover of a childhood diary.
One slap of the crushing waves,
and I too shall be a part of the unknown,
swept away into the void,
left to be deciphered,
through discussions and debates,
a cold tiny stone in tunnels of memory.