Anannya Dasgupta

The first unseasonable
October snow, I sit on my unmade bed
and permit myself to mouth the words –
without you.
Everything new or of rehashed old that
ever happens again will happen
without you.
 
I could be the unmade bed, the unwashed linen.
I could wear every crease, crumple and stain
on my skin. I could refuse to let any part of
you escape from this my sullen heap of
love, except that too would happen
without you.