I was on the table
When a strand of your hair came calling.
I could see you in the kitchen,
Your face at once a storm and a breeze.
I curled the single strand of loving you into imagined shapes
And spoke to it of fascinating tales.
And as it played on my fingers,
Twirling, and curling
I could hear the music from its silent songs.
I had half the heart to carry it with me home
And hide it in a book marked you.
It smelt like July Flowers.
It smelt so much of you.
First published in Indian Sahitya, Feb 2017 Issue on Contemporary Indian Poetry