by Parth Pandya
The sun strained through the smoke
To take a look at her,
Through the rings she blew;
An art perfected
Over many a dead lung cell
As she rested her restless legs
On the rim of her balcony
Was he dead? Alive? Did it matter?
If he was enjoying the breath of life
He might as well be dead
For what was he but a memory
Of the man she once loved
If he were burnt to ashes
He might as well be alive
The torrid touch of his fingers
Was a phantom memory on her breasts
Above all, beyond him, the song,
That wistful, sinful ballad
Would never leave her
His voice graced her home, her ears, her soul
Her own voice betrayed her
Joining him always as she played again
The CD over her sound system
She knew each bend and curve
Each imperfection in his voice
Each strum in minor G
She could see herself in that sound
Holding a lipstick stained glass of vodka
And a portable audio recorder
Trapping his voice for eternity
Like a shadow tethered to her
Often growing, often withering
She knew not if it was him she had to let go
Or that memory of him in the moment
Lost to the world, lost to her, surrendered to the song
She had let go of his callous hickeys and careful caresses
And of the lack of drama in the way they had drifted
She felt strong nameless hands on her neck
Compensating their anonymity with a massage
“Nice voice. Whose is it?”, the man asked
She waved the smoke away and unleashed the sun
And in a cold, firm voice answered, “Nobody”
