This is for You.

You, of the auburn hair
And the sordid brain-
And that little emboldened self
That hid behind so many masks
Of beauty and desire-
Of love and lies-
Of femininity and feminism.

Tell me- just this much-
Do our rum-soaked evenings
Full of laughter laced with ululating
Lullabies ever come to you
Lulling you in the selfsame labourless sleep?
And when sitting at the curb of the river
Of unhappiness, do you still feel a gentle pull
A tug, away from the despair?

And when he did whatever he did with
The conative phallus destroying your cognition
Does it also penetrate your interiors, upsetting
The ambience within? Still?
Won't there be a little space for me in those
Devastated nooks, where I can sit and echo
Into your insides, the azaan that you liked so well.

Or is it that, I also recall in the sunrise-
Or the sunset, is it, only a golden dash of yourself?
When all the murk, that flows down your body,
Bending upon your groin, only seems to scintillate to me?
And when I try to remember your name,  have I lost it
Somewhere, between a thought, and a memory?