The heart taken out
after surgery will writhe
for sometime and then go still.
Gradually it will rot
and then there will be no trace of it.

The skull will remain intact
for a long time. I have
tremendous faith in the skull
placed on my table.

I talk with it,
lock my look
with it,
lift it on my palms,
caress it, kiss it.
And hugging it,
I make it listen
to the palpitation
of my mad heart.

I apply talc
on its forehead,
kohl in its eyes;
I draw a pattern
on its cheekbone
and then wipe
them all clean.

It does not smile or cry,
pretend or protest. It
only keeps looking.

I turn into two pieces
of crossed bone
and place myself
under the skull.

Sometimes I become a ripple
around the dear skull.

Sometimes
I let my mind, pen and consciousness
enter the holes of its eyes and nose.

Sometimes
I wonder, what if one’s heart
had been made of bones!

Perhaps every protagonist
at some time or the other
falls in love with the skull.