Kavya

last night
as you slept above the stars
i stole your diary and tore out
its contents.
i burned the pages and boxed the ash
and tossed it to sea as to never let them
feel or touch or inspire again.

anew you woke the next morning
my poem, my hymn.
kavya.
rolling with westward currents
(surely) reversing home
as they withered in the water and flailed for land

when i saw the ashes wash ashore
i blinked,
and again
and again, my bitter dream fulfilled.
but on the dark-sand shore i knelt alone
palms to your heaven,
you, my haven. my heart.

and the wind blew,
kavya.
it blew the ash to the air
and circled me (as did your dreams)
grazed my eyelids like your flutter-wing
lips whispering softly as to
lessen the pain of my exposed imperfection.
but the pain subsided, as my back met the sand and
i thrust my eyes open to meet the light of a blazing
fire through the curtained window.
your skin, my hymn, felt for my own.

and my poem (alone) was there to wake me
that morning,
beneath the sky.