For a Perfect Life

Folder: 
Satish Verma

A running poem was
condemned to die. I will not change
the route. You know the art of breathing last.

Uneasy, you never returned
for confession. The fear eats away
like a virus. You belonged to me.

No strings. We are tied
by sacred words, like swans. We
are intertwined by necks to stay alive.