Poem : Sundays With Romila

She treads like a whiff of wind
Vandalizing scattered newspapers
Slithering over a dozen novels
Zipped boots and long skirt
Crop top and summer hat
Romila strains to find her cologne
Winter sighs at stark defiance.

“Did you throw it under the couch?”, she barks
Me, through out seven years of Romila
Have dared not to touch her belongings
Leaving aside her body
And have attempted reiterating
How the body is more of a belonging.
“No arguments”, I got told
And that was that.

I first met her on the bus
The 108, in the afternoon
Hair in a bun and tangled earphones
Music later found to be retro.
I saw her see me
I saw her look away
I saw her play it smooth.
And casually, the string around her hair was ushered out by her long fingers
And the breeze took them
And me

Only that Romila didn’t and doesn’t know what I really fell for.

Seven years and Romila with her desperate search for cologne
With her golden-brown leather jacket abused so thoroughly in the process
And sunglasses swung up her head
So troubled, yet persistent
Appears to me the same girl on the bus.

By and by I hold her (not her belongings)
And sigh like winter.