Suicidal Love

One of the first names of human birth is love.
A pair of swans glide, entwined in a dance of desire,
floating on the surface of boundless, aching water.

Mithila, lost in the fervour of pilgrimage,
yearns for the kiss of a giraffe’s dry lips
It’s distance, a reminder of longing’s cruel geography.

Mithila’s flesh, a land borrowed,
Where faith is fragile yet absolute
turns to dust, the ultimate act of surrender.

Time beats its drum,
knocking at the gates of hell,
and the ixora blooms,
Its petals hang like chandeliers
In the courtyard of an abandoned soul.

The weight of waiting,
unanswered and unbearable,
presses on
too heavy for hands that no longer reach.

Mithila, born from fire and water,
her essence soaked in paradox,
The scent of flowers, now a refuge for ants,
while the poison of severance
lingers in the breath of a distant stranger.

Altruistic Mithila,
a sensual snail,
her body spoiled by love’s relentless ache.

Midnight watches over the well,
stirring the water with its quiet despair.
Darkness melts like wax,
the last flame of hope flickering, and gone.

The primal hunger of existence
shapes the land beneath
shameless breasts,
and the surge of suicidal love
breaks against the shore
a tidal wave of raw, aching longing.