The same heaven.

I have been to these cities,

Looked at my shifting shadow in the mirrors,
And heard branded gypsies
Rollicking tongues under tarpaulin
But, I found the same mistakes. The same heaven.
Everywhere.

Nothing really changes.

It’s ridiculously funny, don’t you think?
We have been through more than we could afford
And still, if you think that I have stopped smoking
In makeshift tea stalls by the roads, where local gossip
Simmers rain into Styrofoam cups
And somebody sings to almost, no one; you are wrong.
You will find me, where you want to
But the point is, if I want to found by you anymore.

Where have you been though?
Through these days when I was on Himachal Pradesh Tourism buses
And smelled sorrow on seats. I looked ghostly.
I played these songs alone, not in a club or with someone to scream with
But it’s still a party, when I scurry through scratches.
I run as fast as I can.

It’s an apolitical question now- You wanting me or me wanting you?
Me, wanting to walk for the last time through the Rest House Crescent Road or
You stealing my coins for mint. It’s all crackling down
And settling like, fume.

It’s not sad. You can ask Mark Knopfler if you don’t believe.

It’s all about moving on, move on and on and
These distances, slumps of highway boards
And nation on DSNL cables under us- nothing will affect us, I always believed.

I think for some reasons, it’s all saved
And in other ways, it’s all gone.
I have a box of pictures to send you
And one of those mistakes, I will share again and again.