My left hand feels

amputated

without your pelvis

I can’t type properly

it,

my left hand,

stayed there

by your side

tracing the stretch marks on your belly

floating up and down

like a child-in-womb

as it swells and contracts 

in your sleep

when a female NGO officer

hands me the NDA

it drops dead to the floor

from the contours of my handless sleeve