for M., who never
had to. And never really
did.*

Forty degrees Celsius, and I never felt the sun
when I was at your doorstep. Here is the problem
with waiting. Stably idle trying to perch in a perennial
position knowing that there’s a chance of
a never comeback. I’m used to
it.

High noon, dressed in black. No there were
no funerals, just my usual self. I am
just waiting for you to comeback like the sun
had not forgotten about this place; caressed
it with its fingers till the whole place melt.
And we try to find enough shelter
from hot spots like this.

Like I said, I never
have felt the warmth of the sun.

Not in your doorstep.

Forty degrees Celsius. The grasses and the flowers are
wilting in your front lawn. I can’t blame them,

perhaps they’re just like you, wilted
from too much ember on my fingers—

wilted, so you go home; found shelter.

I am at your doorstep, heat stricken, ready
to die, and all I’m asking

is a voice to comeback,
like the sun does.