There was nothing violent <br />about the death of your thoughts <br />from my memories. <br /> <br />We moved so very imperceptibly <br />to the far ends of a bed, slowly, <br />we once made love on. <br /> <br />Enamel etches on my skin your passion <br />Welts, spots of blood sprouting <br />reminding you of a crime, glistening <br /> <br />I espy right over your heart tattooed <br />with some blade, scratched <br />Disjointed nicks joined to form a name <br /> <br />The faceless unknown <br />That you mouth in passion, pain. <br /> <br />I sense the person <br /> in every moment shared with you. <br />In the pauses between words too <br /> <br />The name flitting, an alphabet fallen off a word <br />seeking, fitting into sentences in fleeting <br />Lonely, to find its niche wishing <br /> <br />Love is an agony revisited, uninvited <br />when even space and time conspired <br />maintaining in our hearts distant expanses <br /> <br />Is there anything violent <br />about the death of thoughts of us, <br />except the wounds that we passed along...<br /><br />O Sudhir Janardhanan<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-non-violent-loss-of-recall/
