I was little.
She was lesser of little.
We played.
We jumped.
We tussled, we hustled.
My wheels were kidnapped.
Those Barbie hair was snapped.
Into each other, our heads bumped.
The bond was so plumped.

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Is this the just justice?
Is black still, just a colour?

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I found a lurching gambler,
hiding in my closet,
who sold a part of him daily,
to recoup the lost time.
But his guilt poured him
a cocktail of shame,
guzzling which,
he lost too much of himself,
never to be whole again.

Then the bowlegged legs of clock,
mimicking the click
of my old man's shoes,
coughed at midnight,
and I drifted back to bed,
tucking my mother's shawl
to sleep with me.

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Am I home yet?

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as I turn the night,
without you.
But you trail me.
I weave
arch of our love
from the spool of absence.
Forever...such a pinching word
that travels afar with eyes closed.

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A grief without death

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She was in her maths class.
An invigilator in fancy regalia came.
Gave her a chalk.
And asked her,
"can you do magic with numbers?"
She wrote '3'
Waited for ten seconds.
Then she erased with duster.
All the students laughed.
"What's this?" he asked.
She cried, "size of my universe,
minus mom, dad and my sister."

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Yesterday,
I bought an oil painted canvas.
A blackened house in flames,
outside, three feet away,
a woman with a baby in her hands.
Few blurred faces with raised arms,
rooting for her.
It was bright.
I hanged it in the bedroom.
Today,
l woke up,
and she was two feet away.

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