Some moments do not bring back the rains to me anymore
yet they remain like beads of water on a lotus leaf after the rains.
I let them be, my dun-coloured sky gets used to them.
They too get used to my winding caffeinated days, potpourri of memories, my blue dipped silence,
our stony indifference gulped down in vodka pegs.
Nights are only pills, pillows, quilts,
faded hues of paisley dreams,
foliage of sights, sounds, smell of an unfinished tale
a hunchbacked hillock of time spent.
Next morning I term the moments ‘unreal’ as if, I have never walked through them.
My wakefulness hovers over each news item,
rapes, petrol price, movie reviews, nullifying of an entire state.
I lose count of loves that I may call surrogate.
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