The body is a rumour the universe keeps repeating.
Bone pretending to be boundary.
Skin rehearsing the lie of an edge.
Inside—
The same dark pulse
wears a thousand different names
and answers to none.
We say “I”
like it belongs to us.
Like breath asked permission.
Like blood obeys identity.
But listen—
Every vein is a corridor without doors.
Every touch, a collapse of distance
we pretend not to notice.
And still, we resist.
Build careful distances.
Call it safety.
Call it self.
As if separation isn’t
the slowest form of dying.
Love arrives—
not as kindness,
but as erasure.
It does not ask.
It does not heal.
It removes.
Burns the name
until only presence remains—
raw,
unclaimed,
unending.
And when nothing is left to protect,
tell me—
what exactly
was ever
separate?
Sreejith Kulaparambil
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