The world is so cold outside  , even though it's summer |

Some mornings,
She wakes me up with  a wet sloppy kiss.

Some mornings,
She ****** out the nails on my coffin
And helps whistle my soul out.

Some noons,
I see her doing salsa with my charcoal shadows.

Some noons,
I find her on mountains, waiting with kites
And a sky full of wind, waving at my kid heart.

Some evenings,
She is found having coffee with my lazy beaten spirit.

Some evenings,
She summons winds to my windows with butterflies
And some of the best girly giggles.

Some nights,
She sleeps beside me, comforting my night and conscience.

Some nights,
I just hear her lullabies and birthing of roses dipped in moon,
But no sign of her in this universe.

She is MY MUSE.

yesterday I saw you.
today only your scent remains.
tomorrow, that too will vanish.

you said
the ache for home rumbles in your chest.
I tried to sooth it with words
in the absence of medicine
or a plane ticket.

when you left I moved,
became an immigrant
and I understood what it meant
to live without living.

I forgo the mall mehndi,
the astrologer on his maroon cushion,
order from the pani puri wala
a samosa and small talk -
for a moment
we breach liminality
but then I owe him thirty rupees
and I go alone,
sitting safe from summer heat
snack untouched.

I wait for the monsoon and hope
you will return for the mangoes,
perhaps then I can tell you
everything I meant to say
yesterday.

in this scorched, sun-baked season
we prayed for rain
and when it came
summer heat blazed
as if blooming,
polyester chaffed against
cotton, against skin sticky.
we filled our teacups with humidity
and decided the earth
knew itself better
than we.

overcast
you sit
**** on mango skin
the juice on your chin
drips on
basil leaves,
your hands already wet
before the rain
we watch the yellow mountains
spring back to life
verdant, almost emerald
green foliage tender at the end of summer,
nourished by the dead roots
beneath softened soil.