The night is drowsy
But she is still awake
Her hair tucked behind her years
A spectre awaiting death.

Blood red and paper white
My queen is the ghost of the night

Hard feelings die hard
What a bad coincidence

Making up life as it goes
You gotta think of tomorrow
Not a child anymore

The camera pans once
I sigh at my desk
The room swirls into ribbons of ash

We rush out onto the sidewalk
Pushing a wheelchair
I don't sit on

Together in the shade
In the hushed fragrance of rose petals
Crushed in your mahogany hands.

The sun gets high on this wine
Of our hidden romance
Under the last lonely tree.

The lost corner
That's where it all started from
Those abandoned toys
Rose up in a white sandstorm.

An absolute tornado
Of long forgotten moments
Churned into black hours
A list of lost adornments.

Here a dried rose
There a rusted, copper dine
Now up to the sky they rise in circles
All mushed up in forgotten time.

On a yellow, sunny morning
A grey cloud strays into the blue
The early monsoon

I stare at my grandma
As she forces a comb
Through the unruly strands of silver
Falling over her wrinkled forehead.

She has lived long
Eighty years now
She has seen men and women
Die for an ideal

I fervently hope
That she will tell these stories
Even when I lie in my
Deathbed.