for H.R.
i still dream of being a writer
because that's a dream i started having
before i learned to stop dreaming—
a marrow dream, prenatal scream
corded to the reverse of this life's coin
tossed undead into the world of the living.
a school friend fell off a terrace
and died.
i serve life sentences—
only words to flower her grave
i'll never visit. even after she disappeared
her story was still visible to everyone
on instagram. the usually tap-pastable
skip-awayable cringe rewitnessed
as a testimony of the brief and crazy fragility
of life.
i'm appropriating her— i've thought more of her
on the day she died than i ever did in the ten years
we schooled together. i try to remember—
she used to have short bob-cut hair
which she now seems to have grown out (of?)
her hairband was the brightest of all
(as red as the proof of her fall?)
again, i'm appropriating her death
for a narrative of self-actualization—
a writer is the cruelest month
though their days seem dead
and nights soft.
words she can't hear is all i have for her
for the ash she now is and i soon will be.
~ ajay
30/6/2022
