2
Poetry
The day you die
Anirudh Negi
I don't know, if I wanna live after you die.
It's an ill thought to think of anyway, so I wrap it with the blanket of my love. Usually.
Yet love is what suffocates it out, as it creeps upto me masquerading like a lovely little poem.
It's painful to think of ...You. Dead. Perhaps because you're most of what's alive of me right now.
Yet one day, it shall happen.
I know, for I have wept those tears already.
I feared my own death before I met you, scared not of change but permanence, of the pain with the mask of truth, of death in the facade of life.
I fear my death now too, for I, perhaps narcissistically, assume it may cause you bother.
I know, for I have apologized for it already.
Odd as it may be, I am not afraid for you to leave me. While I live.
Why should I be, when it can not be done, for I were to die the moment you were to leave me.
Don't confuse it with the sorrow that cowards aggrandize as death.
No, I would carve out the life that you infused into my flesh.
Exsanguinate your love through the jugularis you affectionately nibbled.
I know, because I have bought the blade already.
Death would not keep us apart though. It will try. Cause you agony too, and retribution it shall face for that too.
But it would not keep us apart.
Dysphoria drapes this existence, and melancholy knits repulsive forces together to blow life onto these wretched planes.
You bring happiness despite that.
It would be insane then. Obviously; for one to think death could keep you from me.
Death, the common destitute commodity that the most hapless of us may afford.
Therefore wherever you may go, you shall be mine. It's really insane to think otherwise. You or I May die, but we will always be together.
I know, because I have found you then already.