The Knock

The stray sounds of
my name on your lips
still knock at my door sometimes
gently, but with a little husk
and yet shaking the walls
of my relinquished memories
making brittle chronicles fall off
the brown ligneous shelves
placed in some forbidden corner
of my rustic vapid heart
turning them into sharp pieces
of broken dreams and hopes
which pierce deep inside
to dredge up the wounds of past
only to remind me
how delusive is my urge
to rush and open the door.

– Chhaya