The pages had started to rot,
Becoming translucent as they did,
Not that I wanted them to,
But they did.
And now I only miss you
Two or three times a month,
That too feels like casted shadows,
Whose other half, muted and debauched,
Unable to reach the flood gates,
Unable to stiffen the throat for a teeny bit,
Such useless,
So yeah...
I am slowly but surely disinheriting you,
Your fur and fragile bones,
And the feel of your belly on my arms,
Specially when it used to grunt
Like a malfunctioning generator.
Doesn't change much though,
I was unable to understand more so than now,
Weird, how I could not...
It has to be that black trash bag, that smell,
Or is it your eyes,
They were sprinting so fast, back and forth,
That it felt like they were gonna come out,
Or maybe it's your tounge,
It was totally unresponsive, except for the tip,
That too when the dropper milk landed,
But you were never crying,
Back then I secretly wished you would,
You know?
Perhaps not.
~vaqif
