1 min read

Old Love

It’s okay!

Let the lips of habit continue to suckle

the barren, cold breasts,

Let the honey of togetherness

paint the house with bittersweet stickiness,

Or whatever remains, be preserved in

outdated metaphors on the drawing room walls!

I long for your dutiful cuddles

and dispassionate kisses ...

It’s comforting that, you are capable 

of such odd acts of kindness

even when desire has left us without a trace,

like the lost hair of youth.

And I wonder why I do not resolve to

redeem it someday, 

through its superstitious sea crossings:

in seven days, seven months or seven years!

In this slithery grind of indifference

we bleed, wounded by our own 

courteous, considerate words, 

and the familiarity of breaths.

In the guerilla forests of our bed,

Our bodies rebel in poisoned embraces

and fire point blank kisses, whose souls, 

we know are hollow.

Like murderers, 

we grab each other by the throat, 

and pour a gulp of sorrow, despair,

sometimes unbearable hope.

When the ambush is over,

We gather the missile ends,

untouched land mines 

and other little toys.

And carry our wounded bodies to the loo,

or to the kitchen fridge, like

kidnapped fugitives, suffocating 

for the land they would never return.


something beckons us, again and again.

Like the bath at home, where you come back

after all those detours and adventures;

to wash dirt from the open wounds, 

to lick and heal the excitements,

to drown in the arms of familiarity. 

Perhaps, it is longing,

Perhaps, it is love.

Trial Room


The trial room gives you eyes,

Like you have never seen before.

The straight one, the profile, 

The back, your messy bun,

Even the anterior fontanella view,

in which, you always miss your mom.

In the lie of your wholesomeness,

It offers thousand scatters of you,

All unbroken and functional,

Staring with the voyeuristic courage,

you never managed to own.

In this virtual belongingness,

You can hug the nearest you,

And feel the whole world 

hugging you back!

And that you are safe and loved;

Quite a therapy!

You can fondle your breasts 

like no lover ever has,

Through multiple angles,

Until you discover the brown mole

below your left breast,

marking the position of your heart.

I wish I could take you too

to the optics of the trial room

So that we can hunt for the

unknown pains of our bodies,

which make you moan 

even after satisfactory sex,

with the aid of expert reflections,

set at critical angles.

But you stand outside, 

Bundled with all the dresses for trial

and knock at the door,

waiting to assess my fit.

Through the scrutiny of your eyes,

I clutch upon that real me,

And the real dress that I fit into.

And the trial is over.

Sanitha Sathyan is a medical doctor by profession and a poet by passion. She has been writing for the past twenty years in Malayalam and English, though not published extensively.

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