Friday, April 10, 2015

In August

In August ache was ageing on bare peepal trees
bleeding through eyes, nose and mouth
as watery wisp or crimson canary.
In August you visited friends
while I confided in strangers
so senseless and nameless.



In August you were wearing wings
while catching a flight
or sailing on escalators
while I leaned listlessly on lifts
and took rickety buses, that was peeling its paint.
In August I dressed
in a nine to five folly
to repress solitude's spinster act.

In August we e-mailed
and you called daily
telepathy was the transition
in our voices so vulnerable,
In August defiance doomed to an early death
marvelled at how a continent
and a six hour flight would never let us meet
first and last awaited.




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