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Sayali Aug 2018
A thin film of air quarantines the words,

And toggles them into reverse,

Settling them back under the tongues.

The eardrums condensed by a deep warble,

Nothing heard, nothing said,

The pupils swelling like planets through a telescope lens,

Tired eyes gazing, as time flings itself in sepia and grain,

Planting memories of twilights on a park bench after a rusty Monday,

As you looked over a five year old dressed as a ballerina,

Of subtle brushes of the fingertips,

While you walk into the grocery shop in your robe,

The throat starts to build a lump,

And translating it into a warm feeling,

You stay rooted,

As,

The eyes,

Watch,

Un-love,

Wait,

Listen,

Surrender,

And love again,

In Radio silence.

— The End —