In my room on the terrace,
I spend hours shifting in my self.
moving my breasts along my body,
adjusting my eye and putting it
near my lip. I gaze into the mirror,
and wonder if you would like to hear about
The dreams I had
The other day when you spent
the night on the roof top
With blanket sticking close
to you, inching closer to my hand, watching
Us, curved like a half opened,
less expressed moment in time.
On the days sun is not harsh
upon the city, we take long walks
along the banks of this solitude.
These days your hair is growing long
and I tuck a strand behind your ear
and let your earring gently fall into my palm.
There was a beginning when we searched the land.
Two pairs of hands shifting around the in the cloudy
day, grasping at thin air-
You laugh about the storm and I
rest my cheek against your hand
where the perfume rests and often
hides in the creases of my kurta.
These days we slip past intruding eyes
and I realize I haven’t written to you for
a long time. But the days slip along the
shores of my nervous fingers like salt.
Green with interpretations, my dreams
have squatted in my ‘Thoughts on Love’ for months now.
I love and love and love.
Like monsoon pouring down on Dilli,
Like Yamuna spreading herself along
the boundaries of Maidan,
Like the shadow of quiet disbelief
Resting on your shoulder, spinning like an Atlas.