Voice

 

Like gold to lead,

Your tone to Chet Baker,

Shifting from gruff,

A moment’s sway from the rough.

 

To a steady soft whisper,

Two words, that one day,

“Yes, da.” – worth an hour of foreplay.

Not the words, not the context,

Not the time or the place.

 

Imagine if you will,

Two icebergs, Two massive

formidable structures,

Heading to crush you,

You standing in between, shivering.

 

Yet one syllable pushed against,

And the other kept you close,

That even freezing wind that blows,

Can’t rip you from his chest,

From the tight grasp of his arm,

 

Enwrapped and calm.

Can a vocal chord resonate

With a soul so desolate?

 

The crunch of his beard,

My forehead to his neck.

Left me a wreck,

Last touch before bed.

 

Too much to handle,

Light a candle,

Mourn the sensible girl,

Weep the loss of the rational,

Forward to wasted hours-emotional.

 

Then it fades – the hugs,

The smiles, the greetings;

The walks, the talks, the meetings;

The nights and days spent with others,

Less now, soon without me. His choice.

 

Until all you’re left with is his voice.

A remnant, a memory to rejoice.

 

Poem by Srividya Balayogi.

Illustration by Sanjana Acharya.