Turn my head at every sound, not so much now.
Regret takes refuge in me, not so much now.

Was her hair brown? Her face an autumn evening?
I remember she was me, not so much now.

Heart-shaped envelopes, a book of ghazal,
stuffed with songs and star-lit sleep, not so much now.

From the border, the bullets travel in dust –
leave your wounded memories, not so much now.

One night of full moon, your arm around my waist,
it’s all I wanted to see, not so much now.

On your grave, flowers stoop like old, cold widows.
Light was taxing, rain came free, not so much now.

The wind, Rachna, beats its chest, against the door.
It awaits your scent to leave, not so much now.

****

Inspired by Rowan’s post on Ghazal