there are bones under your bed-
whole skeletons with no hearts,
but eyes that blink
seventy-two times in a minute.
they’re closer to your hands
on nights when
your fingertips hang on to a
doorknob, that bleeds every time
it’s turned to let someone
out.
someone is always walking out.
there’s too much blood
for a heart to pump
and still flutter
in anticipation of
another breath
fading.
••ari purkayastha
and so you say..