xx, BD

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My own ghosts of this empty flat have their own ghosts 
The last rung of the ladder I would workout on has a Voldemort 
A paint stain that is an unmistakable likeness of the Dark Lord

I fall asleep to memories of multiple forgotten dreams suddenly recalled before sleep
Every emotion here intensifies
Accidentally seeing a lone sleeping leg in the mirror of the dark room frightens my very soul
As I no longer sleep in front of mirrors in my new home(s)

So many old secrets still embedded in neglected storage 
A grandmother's gift of a diamond pendant claimed by its hungry drawers
Missing for fifteen years 
A dress and a pair of jeans impossibly too small that somehow would (albeit temporarily) fit me

As I pack up the flat methodically, in a ritualistic dance with the old highly replace-worthy mop
It occurs to me that:
There is so much the walls with its webby corners still gives
Just being alone here is like reclaiming a sleeping part of my old untethered identity 

I checked, I'm facing East with my head in West
The sleep is so enchantingly deep here
Like there is an invisible Puck orchestrating it
I've consumed copious amounts of fiction here
Prescribed in school and college through poem anthologies, literature, prose or new friends
Unprescribed through random discoveries and loaded feverishly on a Kindle that rarely hibernated

I'm never ready to leave
Reassured only by the prospect of returning again
I am reminded by my old joke as I go to work
"Laxmi ko na nahi karte" the ghost of my musing self chuckles as three auto rickshaw drivers, back-to-back, refuse regardless

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