The Kiss

I want to kiss your scars till they close,

fold under your impossibly warm skin that turns freezing cold

as soon as the first hit of Delhi winter creeps under my quilt.

This is my first winter with you – these are new things I learn every day:

One: you wear a sweater from Forever 21, and a beanie from Sarojini.

Two: your skin dries up on your chin, much like mine dries up all over.

Three: you call my last winter my winter, you name my sadness and

What do I even do with the immensity of your heart?

I want to kiss your scars till they collapse into nothing.

I don’t tell you this. Maybe I do. I talk a lot. I talk. I talk.

I want to kiss your scars, honey.

I drop endearments around you, but in seriousness,

I return to your name. The vowels of it burst out of my mouth,

the lines of it test my pigeon scrawl, it clutches me,

leaves its handprint on the curved fatigue of my spine,

when nothing else can.

I will kiss your scars, and your hand, and your head and talk through kisses,

when you half-laugh and say, stop talking. I like talking to you.

Winter will crumble and turn to less-winter, and more-blinding summer,

and summer to less-summer, more-monsoon, less-more-more-less –

more you, more us – maybe the seasons will indulge us

when we grasp at half-straws?

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