This Dusk, with its violet lips
slithers in from the windows

It rescues my reclused face
with a knife made up of light
and cold bones:
The eyes are dissolved
in a jar of warm red blood.
to cleanse any memory
of unwanted colours.

I remember when you left, that afternoon
like a rainbow disappears in the untouched mist.
I have been filleting that image
with my nails, now worn out.

But all I get is the taste of bitter gold,
over my tongue and dreams of red autumn
in my sleep.

© Shashank Bhardwaj