As if opiated,
something impossible, I was
asking from you.

I was very angry
with me, carrying the unborn―
baby-dreams, in my arms,
and leaving you behind- flawless.

Learning against the past,
I would commit the old fixation
in my sight, to clasp
your sweaty hand for a while.

And under the April moon
you were walking,
scattering the rose petals―
on the way to a shrine.

Do prayers heal a man
who preemptively
went for the assault?

I was, what I am not.