For Mamta.

I collected the pieces of your broken soul,
I built you from scratch,
Now they say that you are a Goddess,
A creation not meant for man.

You are my emptiness,
My silent void.
A scent that never goes away,
A beat that pulses incessantly behind my eyes,
A throbbing pain,
A soothing whisper,
A touch still remembered,
A terminal disease.

There you are on a pedestal of gold.
Made of my skin,
My blood in your veins.
I will steal you now,
For you belong not here,
But on an altar made of my dreams.