The Last Cookie

Don’t tell me about the dark side of the moon or the depths
of the ocean where the sun never reaches, I was annoyed, but

he wasn’t paying attention. He was defending pain. The pain of
love gone sour. He was only a minor god, of sorts, and it probably

wasn’t his fault, but I wondered if he would concede that the idea
had failed. He brushed cookie crumbs from his shirt. These were

special, cashew and almond biscuits, the ghee melting down his
throat with the sugar. Why does your love hurt, he was asking, 

reaching for another one. Expectation, I said, expectation. Didn’t
you see that coming, like weeds in a garden, a design flaw. But

then, that’s probably just my fault. He smiled. I shouldn’t tell you
this, he said, a conspiratorial tone, love sat right there one day and

cried, just like you, did I break people, it asked, make them sad
because I expected too much from them. I thought of what

could have been, of waking up alone, of never knowing. There
comes a point, he said, when you just cannot eat one more cookie.



I am a poet from Bangalore, India and I post my work on

Some of my poems have recently appeared in The Lake, Ekphrastic Review, Parenthese Journal and The Calamus Journal.