20

the time you turn 20, your throat will be a thorn
more like a cactus,
filled with lonely thorns standing apart
or perhaps double-edged nails
dancing along the slim skin around the tonsils
remember that it's an acidic reminder
for all things lost,
for all things gained,
for the similar acidity you felt
before the good things in life played

your heart will be pounding
for reasons bettter left to the chemical
cluster of the body
palpitation was your old friend
but now as your stomach punches itself,
forces the insides of the body to scream
and scratch against the double-edged nails,
you remember,

remember the time when your father told you the story of 

his father's friend, 

who always fainted on hearing Begum Akhtar sing

 Ae Mohabbat Tere Anjaam Pe Rona Aaya

 
how he was widower, 

a soul lost in the remnants of love like all of us, 

and you imagine all the things that might've been 

floating inside his head transmitting through his body,
how this pale, thick gurgle of cough 

binds you and him together for seeking remembrance
how love is but a reaction to a song passing by.