There’s a thread that unties
the back of your painting,
draped over my chair.
The rains are kissing rooftops again,
and yesterday, we had talked.
We text now and then,
through the gaps of my battery-saver;
there’s always newer news
folded at your mobile’s doorstep.
I narrate my life too —
remember Delhi?
How we met and stayed?
What is it they call it
when two women are in love?
Lez be
best friends.
