The first man who wrote poetry burned his hands

because he couldn’t burn his love

I knew a woman who swallowed the sun and died

while writing the eighth line of a sonnet

“where does love go when it dies?”

I don’t write sonnets because

my sonnet is going to be octave and sestet disagreeing with each other

and weeping while drinking whisky in the middle of the night

or doing laundry in the morning

for not knowing where does love go when it dies

so I try writing about nicer things

where love isn’t a question but an answer (love taking birth from sighs

and settling into all the empty spaces

people hide in their cupboard

or bury in their backyard)

so I swallow the sun

and write ‘i love you’ in 6,500 languages

because I don’t know what to do with all these words

marching out of this skin

turning the radio on and

standing by the door for you

still wondering where does love exactly go when it dies

but I hope when love dies

it goes right back to where it came from

I wish

love

a safe way

back

home

By:

Ayushi Kainthola