The Passenger

Do I liken you
To a lazy Sunday morning?
Of sun-glazed thoughts in bed,
Flitting, but welcome.
You’re like the stranger
who feels like home,
Mine, are you?
Or no one’s to claim?
What secrets do you hide?
In your omnipresence,
Do you question
Or call yourself above that.

Dark alleys don’t keep you out,
Nor do the innermost shafts I find.
Stoic, maybe; I panic,
Indulge this paranoia
Make it go away.
From recesses you come forth,
I’ve come to live with you,
In subdued insanity,
That comes with denial.

Now: on silent nights with you,
Faced with the question,
Looming large and heavy,
Filling the crevices
that separate us;
Can I ever look you in the eye?


Meghana Yerabati

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