you speak to me
through the distant rumble of thunder
stilled by a falling raindrop,
intermittent,
plastic in its monotony,
fleeing from alleyways,
anonymous in the trickle of life.
i keep the warmth of your smile
tucked between pages
of a cheap magazine --
never careful with holding you there,
just letting it be a bookmark
that shifts with the pages
of my want.
today,
i feel like
speaking to you
about the monsoon rain.
of the longing
that's rising
with every falling droplet,
every echo
of the distant thundercloud.
you are so far away,
even in memory.
there was a time once.
when wanting was easy,
as natural as talk.
you sat cross-legged,
blue shirt & blue denim
on a stone parapet,
holding a cuppa
next to me, only just so,
as our conversation
escaped into the humid air,
breathless
from the proximity
of your touch.
you gripped the brew
like it was crumbling porcelain.
and i knew, looking at your careful fingers,
that you were the one for me.
some conversations...
...like swinging leaves,
going nowehere,
swaying in the spring breeze
across topics of want, love
and of death.
i remember those,
and the walk across
shifting sands
on a moonless night.
what were we talking about?
i miss you,
and the lingering smell
of those dangling conversations
that will forever remain
incomplete, unresolved.
