(Image Source: Pixabay)
The ICU-cold, clean, sterile
The doctors convince me it is you on the bed
My vision is blurred
By the sight of bandages, pipes, and masks,
I hold the doorway and slide and fall
At the threshold.
The annoyingly efficient digital clock
On the nauseatingly spotless white wall behind you
Announces it is 11 am.
I imagine thrashing it to the ground
And breaking it to pieces.
Why does the room smell of fish curry and your aftershave?
Or is my memory stuck on the smell of our house
When you left this morning,
In your off-white shirt and black trousers?
(You used to say, those shirts were the easiest to maintain
And so, you bought half a dozen and
Wore them to work, every day.)
Wait! Why am I talking about you in the past tense?
I shake my head vigorously while
Trying to dry my eyes with my palms.
Someone tries picking me up from the floor,
Like a stubborn mosquito in the middle of the night,
That slips the fingers by the fraction of an inch,
Your voice keeps buzzing inside my head
The noise threatens to split my head into two.
‘You didn’t kiss me or wave from the balcony
You were upset over something so silly that
You don’t even remember anymore!’
‘I’M SORRY!’ I scream.
Only the clock ticks on.
(Note: This poem is very loosely inspired from a real life incident mentioned in Haruki Murakami’s Underground.)