Soliloquy

After she gets done with her clothes,
she will squeeze a portion of her heart inside
that battered suitcase passed on by a distant aunt

what will happen to the old man
who waited impassively outside the corner shops
for a slice of her inestimable smile?
or that faithful labrador down the street
who wagged his tail with cordial enthusiasm
every time he saw her glassy eyes?

what is supposed to befall that old lover of hers
who, to this day, believes that he was right
yet begs for forgiveness in the mirror,
who could have given her the world
but chose instead to append honesty with impertinence,
immorality with her truthfulness?

what will happen to those faithful friends
who equate the monsoons with getting drenched
and the summers with an eternal discord of cola,
who were once privy to her deepest thoughts
but, with time, faded away like the proverbial
last waves from the evening-clad seashore?

and what about the new boy she had started to like
who is yet to fathom the meaning of probity
what explanation does she owe to him, if any at all?
will his heart be able to cope with her continued absence
even if a piece of hers remains buried deep within
that isolated, solitary land called a memory?

what is to become of her mother
what will she do when she can’t sleep at night
and has nobody’s hand to hold any more?
will she look for ghosts where her room had once been
or wait patiently for her to come back
and disseminate such thoughts away?

with her daughter finally fleeing the nest,
does it gladden her heart or fill it with tears?
have all these years merely flown past her?
wasn’t it just yesterday that she took her by the hand
entwining her little finger in hers or curling up at night
whispering, “You never have to be afraid of the dark”

just like existing in monumental gardens
she packs every piece of her identity
inside the battered suitcase in order to triumph today
that impossible basket filled with black flowers
says all there is to say about unrequited love
in her minuscule world

the butterflies hovering in those monumental gardens
peek from across the windows and tread labouriously
towards the bench where she used to sit
they whisper amongst themselves and get drawn in
before hesitating to fly towards the deep thicket
not yet understanding that something is missing.