save her number as your compotator,
you know that she has the complex of a saviour.
she’ll hold the cup while you fill it,
with the dread of a man with so much guilt.
“can I see you later?
you just have to be my spectator.”
so she waits with a luminous warm cup
which she drains into her own tear ducts.
mirrors pain and she mirrors you
“I can’t really see through you”
because she’s you, and everyone.
you call her up, she grabs her things and she comes.
but one day, the queen of cups couldn’t take it anymore,
the weight of everything anchored her to the bedroom floor.
her soul called out to anything that could hear in every corridor.
but the only one who responded- was the universe that poured
and left behind the scent of petrichor.
Author: Gayathri Nair