Right Angles

Nothing remains of 

what we had dreamt. 

Nothing left of summer,

nothing left of light. 

And all we do now, 

is look right, where 

there's nothing left of 

love's sacred geometry.

Never again... Never again 

is never coming, never again 

was never meant to be.

And all we had, we thought 

were love's designs, were 

just fate's teeth, chewing us. 

Malevolence, biding time patiently.

And now that we've 

been swallowed whole, 

there's nothing left 

of love, left of me...

And nothing left of 

our sacred geometry.

Anirban Kapil Baishya (March 30, 2025)

On Turning Forty

Everyday, I fill myself with 

forgetting. Buying, selling, 

gazing at daydreams. For each day 

reminds me of my mortality.

And each day, my mother's flesh 

melts away in my embrace—her 

skeleton, cold beneath sagging skin, 

as my father's ashes burn 

another wrinkle upon my face.

Everyday, I fill my self with forgetting

that I too am killing time, until time 

kills me in turn. Everyday, I fill myself 

with forgetting—self destruction, 

atrophy, suppressed murder.

Anirban Kapil Baishya (August 7, 2023-February 10, 2025)