For Nirbhaya

We snuggle close like two
expectant adolescent youth;
Each of our measured movements
is meant to walk a well-trodden
path; each curve, each concave,
each convex of her taut skin
I have known. Like tip-toeing
on a dark staircase, when the lights
go out on a wintry night.
I know when she will reach
the crescendo of excitement.
And then we will hold
onto each other’s limpness.    
 
I am back at my desk
by the window, contented in the body.
To write your pain.
As if poetry and I will know
what it meant to be scooped out
bit-by-bit, and thrown down the
un-trodden path of fear. 
 
Let me write you into oblivion.
 
(Nirbhaya, the pseudonym of the faceless Delhi girl, who was sacrificed on the altar of lust.)
 
 
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