Your Voice

It's been a flight of fancy
the gold splashing on silk curtains
dancing in air, to entice the summer
that has stretched its legs.
Birds crawl on a creek bathing
half the city.
Hallucinate. Inhale. Exhale. Exist.
The grey statue silently gazed
into the sky with a finger pointing
towards north, telling me of the times
to come,when your car whizzed past
vegetable vendors putting weights
for a price, fishes were being stripped
cut and salted. The city reeked of life.
September was our meeting place
when candles lighted in prayer
waxed wishes,we came face to face.
Eye to eye. Holding hands.


Like two lost lovers remembering
a tender touch.
We discussed history
of the city and cuisines in that order,
mulled over marriage and glass ceiling
your beautiful brown eyes were my dowry
for the smile shed in honor of
a promise kept.
This evening I lived under that September sky again
memorizing the pitch of your Mumbai tone, the ache in your apology and the
confessions poured in our drinks
that costed a thousand Hail Marys
and hundred Our Fathers.

First published in the Read Fingers magazine here.