Thanuj Dilshan Senaratne — Day 30. Granite

This is thirtieth piece out of a collection of poems whose the titles come from the traditional gifts that are exchanged by couples for each year of their wedding anniversary.


Day 30. Granite

When I was young,
I went outside,
feather in hand.
Charcoal darkness,
dew-drop lights,
and by flickering flame,
and whispered name,
I traced stars on my wrist.

Through hallowed books,
and soft cadence,
I learned
and learned.
Till galaxies swam,
and supernovae burst,
And heavens took form
in my spotless mind.

When I was older,
I went outside,
pen in hand.
The heavens had gone,
and beauty forlorn.
I yearned for the stars,
but they were long,
and names were all,
that heaven sent
to greet me.

When I was older still,
I went inside.
Low-lit room,
single woman.
Her smiles were soft,
amidst word after word.
I waited;
and told;
to gently arched brows,

that I refused the name. 
And gleefully I ran,
past flustered face;
shredded confusion,
to a multicoloured world
of neo-depressive light,
accepting for once
the beauty of the stars,
and forgetting their names.


Thanuj Dilshan Senaratne is a corporate writer by profession. He holds a degree in Psychology and French from the UK, and passes his free time indulging in travel guides, Instagram forages and musings on Buddhism. He also blogs on fashion at thesmilingtoucan.

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