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Where You Take Me

door ajar for a tumultuous muse

Door ajar — Photo by Riccardo Turrin on Unsplash

I know where you go… on some days. On some other days, I wait for you by the stillness of the lake depicting a serene calmness, given away only by the sporadic rhythm of the ripples that surface, delusively concealing all turmoil of the whirlpool underneath, mad at being unable to get hold of you. By the tail.

I know where you’re going… from here. The petals that bend towards you to lean on, clinging onto fabulous tales of lives they’ve longed to live. Before they die short of Promethean breath. Incomplete. Incoherent. Always missing something. I watch the sound of my dulled senses in lulled soliloquy dismayed at being unable to pen you down.

I knew you were gone… rather too late. The shadows had their fair share of overlapping wonder. Overstaying the welcome, they then wandered off braving to break free from the lifelong tethers. The fated ones fearlessly cross over. Always. Missing however is the prefix ill for the fated. I shall resist you like a gift left unopened. I can, if I want to. Emphasis on if.

I know how to cross the bridge alone now. Just not how to cross your mind anymore.

The three most imperative (apologetic) words in the post script expected of such an unscrupulous stealthy departure were not what you think they are (I am sorry), but simply; I am going.

And now, I can’t go because you left the door ajar.



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Viraji Ogodapola

Viraji Ogodapola


ashes dusted away in morph, in that moment next I’d be.. for now, here I am, grappling in just being..