It can disappear you.
Like the woosh of the wind-
Erasing traces from existence.
I'm thinking of erasing me to
Relocate myself elsewhere.
Somewhere low-key, where
People grow just rice and
Vegetables for a living and die
Without fighting the nature when it
Embraces them with a wound or
A disease. And maybe when I
Spend twenty years like that-
Weary enough of the wildness.
Craving for Dosa and Biryani
Getting out of hand-
I would write you a letter,
As I wouldn't have access to
A cell phone or your number.
It would be scripted in English
But the language would be a
Local tribal slang.
And when you read it out loud,
As per the instructions.
Those fancy-sounding words
Would always mean-
"Fuck you in the ass with a
Poisoned dart". As you were
The reason I'd to go recluse.