Radha, too, had to hide her longing for Him.
She wept under cold skies and ate his words. Charred flesh. His blindness.
I am her, now.
With her music, passionate regrets and still, this doleful glory.
There is this joy we have- of flowers, of walking and then burning out. Of expecting rain.
So that, this city morphs into a muddy orchid and wet earth plops over our shoes.
A tulip shoots through my heart and creeps over to your face
But apart from its scent, you will have to cherish its blood too.
Come inside a smokey room. With a paper and pen. Incense and cigarettes, flowers and water. They all go together, too well.
No comments:
Post a Comment