She seemed fine and not only joyous, but joyous “as usual”.
But I could see it thru.
I saw the dagger she kept concealed;
stabbed mercilessly in her back, blood congealed.
She kept saying I need to do this n’ I need to do that.
I asked her since when did this “You” started to be in you,
Just brush off the doer-ship and find that
there was always “I” in you and will always be.
I felt her eyes moist as a rain-cloud and,
Then in my arms she wept bereft; journey weary,
I stayed unmoved like a drenched Bushman in deep Kalahari.
I could have cleaned the clots and removed the blade,
I knew it was her identity and devoid it she will bleed to death.