Slow writing and quick erasing

In my book I write you

In  dark corners, all over the mud walls
 in the rice fields of late rain in the crooked house by the river

 In the  bougainvillea by the fence under the pillows
 in the shadows of candles and kerosene lamps

In the tulsi of the courtyard where
 mother performs the morning prayers
 In the evening rites of Sanamahi where I offer incense

In the filtering sunlight through the fine white curtains

In echoes  made by children returning home from school

 Kicking dust and sucking on popsicles

In the ache and agony of piercing glass pieces

Suddenly dropped on a thirsty midnight

In the blood that is spilled, violently 

In the bugle played by the wedding band

In the tale of Khamba-Thoibi

I write you in all the places you have never seen,

You have never been,
And then I erase you
From the pavements, from the cigarette ashes
From the paraphernelia of pain
The sudden brake of the car
When the afternoon bursts into a thunderstorms
In my slow writing and the quick erasing
In the trappings of memory
I am beginning to forget the immediacy of you.
When you were just a hand reach away from me.