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
Together, under a clear blue sky