By Shruti Shah
was anything ever mine?
a thought that made my fingers
rest on the bulging butcherable dandruff.
three minutes into january midnight.
and
it is
four minutes into january midnight,
and five.
how many ands till those fingers rest in grave?
how many more minutes till it is a february midnight?
three minutes into february midnight.
and
it is
four minutes into february midnight,
and five.
had I known
that those same months would happen to me
in that same order
but not the moments lived
and the people with me in those moments,
I would not be here
with white pieces of paper
on my orange hot blanket.
twelve minutes into a january midnight.
thinking about
what
all those moments meant
and the people with me in those moments meant.
everytime I
look back
I wonder
why I look back?
why I do so?
Past
is the Schrodinger’s lost cat;
dead and alive
at the same time.
Erwin lost her
as soon
as his theorizing ceased.
But Erwin,
I would like to tell you
don’t worry anymore
please.
she exists in millions
and mine-
the my cat
Im never letting go.
im powerless there.
why I look back
and reach her to pet
almost reflexively?
my cat
simply
is
too innocent and pure.
I just cant ignore
the charms
of the time gone.
merriam webster vommed
‘mine’
as
‘that which belongs to me’-
I thought
and thought
and thought.
And arrived at such words:
only my cat is solely mine.
and only she ever was,
and only she ever will.
everything else
is
was
and will remain
‘not mine’.
By Shruti Shah
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