in Jammu: the city of temples, there is a house.

On the other side of Tawi, past the old bridge, i sit in my memory;

she's talking to me, "earn so i can be free," as my heart drowns in summer.

"it's unbearable," i say -- "the weather hasn't been kind to you"

i wait for her to say something but she's busy again - "i have so much to do.. why don't you settle here and make my life easier," she says with a forced smile.

On the other side of Tawi, past the old bridge, i sit in my memory;

perhaps one day i can give her the world, the one she is promised.

here on the foothills of the mighty Himalayas, on the other side of the tunnel, i wonder.

perhaps i can leave while i still can, younger than i remember, or have i been old and it's merely a dream?

have the city swallowed my memories to keep her relevance alive.

is she just a figment of her many tangled roads, the tree sitting on the three hills, and disjointed neighborhoods?

by the river Tawi - where i once spent the evening swimming in the sweet embrace of liquor, and in ***** of a welcoming morrow.

overlooking the new bridge, thinking to myself, 'how beautiful is home today'.

or making out in the backseat of a confidant's car as we travel through the sidhra road, and she says to me, "do you think this will never end?"

and before i can tell her the truth - i see a fleeting glimpse of silver; and there i am -- in tomorrow -- far from the edges of the mighty Himalayas.

i take out my phone, i need to see what time it is, and there on the screen, it says it's 32 degrees of summer in jammu, still -- and i burst into tears.

On the other side of Tawi, past the old bridge, i am my memory.