Wednesday, March 29, 2017

In Your Voice

The earth under my feet moves
and the sky wears her favourite shade of pink
blushes like a bride waiting to
meet her groom.
This ride in a car, or the walk
down the glossy floors of the mall
is a reminder.
May, the summer month washes
the face of the city in a heat wave
Summer is nostalgia.
Summer is the city you live in.

The shipyard near your house
still talks in another language, I know
reminding me of what I left behind
the twinkle in your left eye
that lit the room 
we had our first conversation in
the radiance of your brow
your unkempt hair, your jackfruit head
that makes you look like a school boy,
of reading newspapers every morning
and worrying about the earth closing in
on extinction, the conversations where 
our limbs were thrown in the air
because silence had gone home
the waves curling on the lap 
of the rocks lining the beach 
the lunch and dinner floating in oil.

I happened to relive the pitch of your 
Kochi tone today evening, as Delhi was splashed
by the breeze of a morning
you sent 
In your voice.

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