The Inmate

by Chumki Sharma

White of those walls,

witnessed many runaways

to the world beyond,

sucks the wind out of me.

I step into the "All Our Goodbyes,"

smile and cheer on their faces,

the way only the lonesome can.

So forlorn. So proud.

And the parchment touch of her

in the warmth of my youthful

supple hand. The gentle flutter.

I read quietly from Dr Zhivago.

The blare of the TV from the hall,

the chatter of her friends fade away

to give way to the stillness settling

within a summer's dusk.

Her silver her cascading

down her shoulders, white winter

ravages, then adorns the

cut beside her right eye.

In the moonlight

I step into my own shadow.

First published in the "Atrocity Exhibition," November 2015