P.S. I Miss You

I envy the madness
That grips your lovers,
The mirth that throbs
In every fibre of their being
When they hear your name,
The ceaseless ecstasy that
Oozes out from their bodies
In form of sweat
When they dance to your chants.

They have different faces, colours
And shapes
But one identity—
Your servants—eternally and joyously.
Everything else is
False.
Everything else is
Binding.
Everything else is
Poison.

 The nectar of your love
Flowing in their veins
Surges upon being invoked
By your names.
The blissful frenzy
Augments
With each passing moment

It is potent and alive—
Yes, it has a life of its own—
Looking alertly for stoic souls
To stir and consume.

The ingenuous prey
Is caught unawares.
It all starts with
Shake of a limb.
Then the body quakes
Then tongue utters
Your name...

And the battle is lost.
You then smile
At the helpless soul
For now it has lost control
Over itself.


It is that helplessness
That I yearn.
It is much better
Than the one
That I feel now.

What would it take
To resurrect that naiveté?
Where did I lose it?
And when?

It is on nights
Such as this
That the loss stings.
And it stings hard.

There goes no day
When I don’t think of you.
For some you are a part
Of life;
For me you were
My life.

Why did you then, O love!
Go mute
On questions I asked?
Why did you then
Withdraw when I needed
You the most?

Was it one of your many ploys?
Was I just one of your many toys?
Who’s to be blamed, you or I?
I cannot say.
Have you pushed me farther away?
Or pulled me closer
To You?
To The Truth?
I cannot say.

We may’ve grown estranged;
We may’ve grown apart;
I can’t but admit though
“Thou art my art”

PS: I miss you.