Ghost Currents

The green chair sits empty—watching me
lie on the bed. The zero-watt bulb
flickers on and off, fed by ghost currents.
A tap-tap of raindrops against the glass,
a passing car, the branch’s twitching shadow.
Beside me, my mother sleeps in silence,
her familiar snoring gone.
The mirror beside the bed holds no reflection—
only swallowed dark.
No house geckos dart across the rose-painted walls,
no mosquitoes whine at my ear.
My fingers feel pale, cold
as the cadavers in my hospital.
This is not me.
Eyes shut, I count the seconds draining away.
The phone hums once with a notification, then dies.
Wood scrapes against wood.
Fingernails scratching words beneath the floorboards.
I jolt awake, heart hammering against my chest.
My mother’s quiet snore fills the room.
Everything is where it belongs,
except the clock on the wall,
ticking upside down.

Bainapalli Vishal

Bainapalli Vishal is a poet from the Eastern Ghats of Andhra Pradesh, India. His work revolves around cultural landscapes and psychological realism.