Isn't that Something?

When you decide to stop knowing a person,
decide, with all of your vital being,
after a while, the rims of your remembered truths
take on the smoky insignificance of a 
burnt out dream.
And then all that is left of
a (once) favourite person are some involuntary
flashes
that come and go as they please, leaving
the tiniest wrinkles
on the surface of your subconscious.


Flashes: 
a rambling contour of their scraped knuckles here
a whiff of their field-noon chin there.
The lilt of their old-hindi-song voice or
the sunlessness of their retreating back.
May be even the colour of their grin,
at the mention of that one favourite food. :)
Exact, happy, familiar. Familiar still.
May be.


Or may be none of that would 
dare find you. Again.
Ever.
May be the rim of your remembrance will catch
fire,
fire, not smoke, and
all your pretty flashes 
will sizzle out, an
August forest fire that ends only in
ashes.



Ashes.
Colours.
May be.



Isn't that something?