To be alone,
how frustrating at times,
how complicated for days—
to see the boredom
pulp the brain
until there remains nothing
at the day’s end.

To be unable
to assuage the pain
of nothingness
& lie on the sofa
with a book of verse
on the chest –
its weight lodged
in the spirit –
with dog-eared past,
an endless bookmarks,
how vexing at times
to be unable
to rinse the pus
of memories
from the swollen mind.

How depressing at times
to be alive unhappily,
to bring a bottle of wine,
pour a glass,
a few red droplets
on the book –
libation to the goddess
of knowledge –
& to drink slowly,
to drink alone,
how tormenting at times—
to listen to Bach alone:
drink, listen, drink, listen
lying on the sofa,
day after day,
night after night,
& fall asleep
at wee hours
of the morning
with lights on:
the porch light,
the bedroom light,
the kitchen light
& wake up at 4 pm
with a terrible headache,
roll out of the sofa,
drag the body,
to the urinal;
how annoying at times
on days like these—
days bloated with
bottles & bottles
of loneliness.

Bibek Adhikari
Twitter @bibek_writes




she arrived in a taxi
completely drunk

it was
one of those days
when I worked
at the corner shop
I stood there
fixing an old piece of furniture
and looking at her
in her rumpled state

empty, she echoed
she was a museum
without statues, without murals
nun-hearted and blind to the world
her face, a featureless,
fine Newari linen
but, she smiled
and she was only thirty one

I looked her
like a silkworm
looking at a mulberry leaf

shoring up the middle of her life
I know, she’ll die
at her strongest
yet the most beautiful time.