Rumi told me the light would enter through my wounds but today they just hurt.
They throb where you drew the knife along my back, as if you were trying to etch your secrets. So that the others you followed behind would still see your marks, and read your story.
I would be your novel, a tome to your splendour, a sub-character in my own play. Tonight my pages are dark and light cannot find a purchase.
(C) Manivillie Kanagasabapathy