Poem: 'More'

by Anushka Kar

You couldn’t get enough of her.
When the greased dishes,
Still not polished to the edge
Laid dead against the side.
So you’d tell me
More.

When the stacks of lined paper
And heeled shoes
Rested beside my bed
all without purpose,
You’d tell me,
More.

When mornings were late-
much like the night before,
my bed still unkempt
Or the floral scent of chemicals
still in the basket,
You’d tell me,
More.

There an evening,
You thought you’d lost me.
But I came home;
‘I always do.’
Busy, I was
Yet somehow she crept forward,
More.

Her name said, called, demanded
more so than mine;
Maybe it was thrilling,
Intoxicating.

‘More.’