sreyash
The Grammar of Red
I carried the pomegranate as one carries a secret star— wet with the dark between the teeth of heaven.
To be open: the forest inside the wound, the swan’s vanishing scent on the wrists of dust.
Your eyes— two eclipses learning tenderness. My hands, an abandoned sky. Between our lips, the small, ferocious astronomy of unshed blood.
At sunset, even the gods forget the grammar of light.
And what is the heart but a red heresy against stone, a chamber of seeds refusing the singular?
I have loved you with the ruinous candour of fruit: no skin but the thinnest dusk, no defence but sweetness, no secret the mouth could keep from its own hunger.
Outside, the stars go on practising their ancient indifference.
Inside, the crimson gathers.
I do not wish to be unbroken. I wish to remain permeable to the terrible, the tender— to let the world pass through me without becoming its wound.
O my heart, little orchard of the unburied—
bleed, if you must.
But let the blood remember it was once light.
