you slip out the open door of my spine.
when i pass you in dim-lit hallways, my fingers
brush your wrists, lingering, unbodied. i dream of
you – perched in air, eyes strange and diya-limned.
my throat is still cupped between your hands.
i do not take it back. i dream of girlhood:
unhesitant, unblinking. saying, relentlessly.
i hold bare-knuckled syllables, press them against
my mouth like the light-bait curve of your cheek. home
is a drifting, unmoored: i stumble, chasing ghost-tongued
sound in twilit gray, in trackless and holied land.
close my eyes to the spilt refraction of your laugh.
my palms are thief-branded, my shoulders trapped
in the muscle memory of touching you, careless.
i don’t want to forget this. i want to forget this.
i do not take my throat back.
Kavi Kshiraj is a queer, Indo-American poet found in New Jersey. They spend time on hobbies such as writing, mythology, and their various identity crises.