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Taken from my collection 'Lines'.


Headlights move past the slits

in the blinds

and makes lines

slice across his face,

my face.


Monitored by his sleep

like a newborn.

When he dreams, I don’t.

When he turns, I wake.

If release is a must and sleep is the entrance,

the no entry sign speaks louder than me.


His noises are silent to me now

but the silence still deafens.

I have no duvet but I’m thankful

to the cold that makes me numb.

He’s never absent from this bed,

or the furrows of my eyes.


An oil portrait with a surface once glossed,

now left to hang, and dry

and thin, the skin that clings

onto the bones of my cheeks,

and my brows above

pen one depleted soul. 

© 2015 By Pria Rai. Proudly created with Wix.com