Ruthless Gravity of Doubt

Those evenings we went to the sand-dumping
site behind a double-storey building. The sun
hung on the west horizon like a fruit tempting
enough for the monkey god to gulp down. The 
bushes at a distance seemed to be reincarnations
of old ships broken down by un-nacred ocean 
waves. Remnant beauty of ruins. What was I 
but a door opened to a world. Whose details
I remember more than the language my heart 
babbled seeing my first crush on the way to school.
If you think this is what I want to say, then 
you're judging a case with incomplete hearings
I mean, we climbed the building terrace and
jumped down upon the thick sand gathering.
Our open limbs all smeared by sand grains. That
flight, that moment in the air I felt I was as other
as radiation is from light. As uncoupled as
reflection and shadow of a thing. What word
can describe a memory that floods me with 
a handful of meanings. I find my name tap on
the mysteries of moments containing stars 
inside them. How is it they open only by 
gravity of doubting, am I alive now or just breathing…

Purbasha Roy is a writer from Jharkhand India. A she/her. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Logic(s), Acta Victoriana, Strange Horizons and elsewhere. Attained second position in 8th Singapore Poetry Contest. A cloud lover.