
May my future self betray me
if I live long enough to change.
Untangle one wrist from the clasp of the other
and flee, illuminating nothing.
May the names I assigned to things
no longer fit.
What I call land will bleed out beneath her feet,
and what I call law will soften in her hot, living hand
like a piece of ice,
a drop of water.
Enter history if I am a myth.
If I'm history, I'm not going to mention myth.
That's the issue: we use the same few words
over and over again, as if each one signified something different.
"Stay," a voice begs, and I freeze.
Is this what it means?
How will she react
When I ask her to run?
What good would a history do her in the first place -
what good would this tight, foolish narrative?
If I live long enough to no longer touch
terrain I don't yet confess fertile with my hands
may my future self term it so
and get to her feet.
This is what it means.
Confused between passion and profession, Saurav would choose procrastination - even while writing a one line bio. Or an anti-bio.
