#085

the windows are half-
whispers, chalk dust and
pre-fall mist tendril-ed

you draw me in eta(s), theta(s),
lend me stares-
some extrapolated,
some warm-
“there are lines,” i repeat but
you ignore guilt pangs,

those ice-cold knives
that slash the air ‘tween us.

and everytime
you flip probabilities-

i shiver.

©Mohana Das

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