Because we do not preserve memories from decay

By immersing them in vessels filled with formalin,

I tried to remember you today- your smell, your kiss

The beats and lyrics of the songs you said your heart

Sang for me, but I can’t remember any.

Is there a word for the way poets feel when

They realize that their fondest memories are husks-

A pile of grain chaffs- which the winds can blow away

After poems have been winnowed from them?

Can anyone tell us why some love stories are so short

That the reader has barely chewed the first mouthful

Before he looks down and finds an empty plate

With a glass of tears beside it, to wash it down

On nights like these, when insomnia burgle my thoughts

And questions crawl under my duvet to gangbang me,

I whisper your name into the hollow you left in my heart,

And only an echo of silence bounces back- no pain, no hurt