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I thought of you as an incomparable portrait; all framed in gold.
You were Dorian Gray last night.
My dream of paradise left incomplete, I suddenly woke up.
I ate an apple last night.
Everyone knew the truth about you and me.
I spread a rumour last night.
I remembered our ink-stained hands; the prose we used to write.
I typed a sonnet last night.
You instructed me about the rules of languages – yours and mine.
I read Shahid Ali last night.
Your love had something in it unbearable – a mother.
It was the night of the scorpion last night.
You had made my mind your house; my body your room.
I tripled the rent last night.
You were the muse of my story; of my first novel.
I wrote the epilogue last night.
And I, Akhil, knew well that God died yesterday; his was the other pyre.
The ashes ceased to smoulder last night.