By Mihir Vatsa

Things which aren't ours

Things which aren’t ours
Photo : Mihir Vatsa

Things which aren’t ours

Like
hooks nailed behind
the bathroom door.

Their heights differ;
they brush your hair
in diffidence.

In divisions we adjust—
doublefold trousers from the bottom
so they don’t touch
wet tiles.

Hearts on college desks:

they lived before
you fell in love
with the names inside.

In familiarity we melt—

the heat takes its toll,

you say one day in June.
And people nod.

Things which aren’t ours.

Like
shoeprints on the wall

ringtone at a funeral
handshakes in lineation
language of loss.

Their sizes change.

And things
hanging from hooks
we use

but don’t remember making.

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