any given sunday

it’s beautiful
the way your hands work
you roll a bouquet-
stemmed paper flowers
a jazz measure
between your card and mirror
‘painter’s fingers’
remembered by old lovers

your icepicked brain
spills a slurry of words
you’ve been drinking for hours
(or so you’ve heard)
your practised hands
still function, desperation
gloved as discipline

sunday mornings coming down
old friend, i cover your ears
but the whispers still get in
colourful dots on tube maps
promise salvation
but every vein you trace
leads you here
again

theres pictures of us
in school yearbooks
starched whites
fresh with ambition
do you remember
chanting an anthem?
our futures rhymed
Quo non ascendam…

Quo non ascendam – To what heights can I not rise?

By: Samarth Agarwa

Samarth Agarwal is a poet and writer living in London,UK. He spends his free time attending writing workshops, volunteering at local charity shops and serving his cat. His work has been featured in Cerasus.