Still Corner, Untuned Guitar and the Plunge

You sit in the
still corner of my home,
strumming an untuned guitar.
The air lay dead around you,
I think the breeze doesn’t like
you at all because it’s not
what I crave for when you’re here.

I wait for the pencil in your bun
to fall off and unleash those
storms my world is parched of.
The beads of sweat
on your forehead roll on your
jawline and you pay no heed
to them and I envy those
beads to trace your skin
nonchalantly.

You play a tune I may have
heard of, somewhere, sometime
and sing a lullaby
my mother devoid me of.
You look into me with those
mischevious eyes I fell into
a zillion times,
and still, still, I haven’t figured
the depth out.
Take a plunge, they say.
Take a plunge, the guitar plays.
Take a plunge, your song conveys.
And I’m too scared this time,
what if I never come back.

What? You ask after an era
of constant staring.
Nothing, I say with a smile.
And you stay in the still
corner of my home,
still corners of my heart.
And I wait for the pencil
to fall off.
I’m still waiting.
Waiting.

Parth


Photo by Vladyslav Dukhin from Pexels

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