Gloves

‘Doctor, I find nothing unusual
in a person roaming with his hands
hidden in gloves in this sticky month
of May; you should judge the outward
versus the inward feeling of passion,


One needs to nurture the warm within,
since the first time my path crossed with hers
My life had been a torture, dangling
in tenterhooks. Till the day I gathered
these gloves, these woolen ones - you like the color?


Last week an ant brigade terrorized
my woeful love- you can’t see them,
They don’t squirm on the surface, yet I
feel them piercing into me, and yes,
taking my gloves off are of no use,


I told you, they are stabbing into me,
All I want is some pesticide, you got it?
Its been a whole week of burn, and somehow
I’ve stopped short of ending my world
in some suicide forest, believe me,

...hey, what’s bitten you?