for H.R.

i still dream of being a writer

because that's a dream i started having

before i learned to stop dreaming—

a marrow dream, prenatal scream

corded to the reverse of this life's coin

tossed undead into the world of the living.

a school friend fell off a terrace

and died.

i serve life sentences—

only words to flower her grave

i'll never visit. even after she disappeared

her story was still visible to everyone

on instagram. the usually tap-pastable

skip-awayable cringe rewitnessed

as a testimony of the brief and crazy fragility

of life.

i'm appropriating her— i've thought more of her

on the day she died than i ever did in the ten years

we schooled together. i try to remember—

she used to have short bob-cut hair

which she now seems to have grown out (of?)

her hairband was the brightest of all

(as red as the proof of her fall?)

again, i'm appropriating her death

for a narrative of self-actualization—

a writer is the cruelest month

though their days seem dead

and nights soft.

words she can't hear is all i have for her

for the ash she now is and i soon will be.

~ ajay

30/6/2022