Together, may be we will start smoking, pull out our heroes out of the books, remember how two brothers feel reading the same page, write a sorry letter to our exes ending with spoilers of their favourite shows, run into the jungle with a mango pickle jar instead of fireflies, sing into the woods in different voices to fall in love with new versions of ourselves, go to beach and see moon doing moon things, come back with sand in our kneecaps, pack night into our room and witness dew retrace its own beginning, try new flavours of icecream till they run out of summer, buy Egyptian antiques and a baseball bat, lie on the floor with puppies on our lap, take pictures of our grandpas taking a nap, learn French just to kiss and cuss in the same language, block every person with a dp of cabbage, measure our evening walks by the length of Taylor Swift's latest album, tingle our limb whenever it goes numb, swat away pin drop silence by punching staple on our tongues.
Or may be nothing will happen. I will just sit across the balcony watching you leave as you drive away on a bike after a long fight. And l shall chew gum wondering who stole my lighter when l was trying so hard to quit.-
You were standing on the line. You put a pomegranate on your head. And asked me to take a aim. I said I can't, my hands will tremble. You told me I had to and tutored me to just focus on your bindi.
So I pulled the string back and released the arrow. It split into two parts, one on either side. There was a rush. Everyone wanted a bite. Their dress got covered in red.
I couldn't locate you. We wanted same thing from different gods.
The fruit was our love. The arrow was my fate. Your standstill posture was the heat of my untamed memory. And l...the mad stampede.
I should have aimed at your heart.
It was 1947.-
My father sits by the windowsill. Few bread crumbs are fitted into the wrinkles of his palms. He looks at me, confessing he is afraid of height. Yet he wants to fly. Once in a while, l witness a bird comes, flaps her wings and is fed by him. He touches her feathers and feels the sky spilling from him this way. And he curls his lips, knowing clouds will descend to visit him one day.
And that day I will be just a relic of history and my love for you shall be measured by the number of crumbled pages my mother threw in the dustbin on her countless trips from doormat to the kitchen. Till then, I have to keep the door unlocked for my mother, window open for my father.
And l will make sure the yeast pieces blown away in the wind was all the poetry I could afford for you.-