Have you been writing?

You ask me

If I've been writing.

Well, kind of.

What do you do

When something is, so to say,

At the tip of your pen?

You write.

You write everything but that.

You search for it

In every line,

Every gap, every curve,

Every comma, every period.

They say,

Life is what happens

When you plan other things.

If that is true,

Then yes, I am writing.

Well, kind of.

Traces

It was lying there.
Hiding among the pages
Of an old xerox copy,
A dusty yellow envelope.

How is it possible?
Hadn't I rummaged every corner
Of every trunk, every drawer?
Box of gifts
Gloriously flung into the garbage dump;
Green coffee mug
Deliberately smashed to smithereens
On my hostel floor;
Black pullover
Deliciously cut up into pieces
So no one would have to wear it again;
Every tiny little trinket
Hunted down, mutilated, destroyed.
And now this.

Remove every trace.
That's what she said.
Remove every trace
And all will be well again.

So I set it on fire.
One page at a time.
I watched it burn
Till the red embers turned black.
Like they do in the movies.
A proper ceremony.
A trace removing ceremony,
With maudlin violins
As background music.

One more trace removed.
So how many more to go
Till all is well again?