Sunday, September 16, 2012

Drifters

Tu vi banjara te saajan main vi banjara.

In between
nothing but ceaseless metaphors
and infinitesimal sighs,
you adjust your thick-rimmed
glasses, and suddenly run out
of hyperboles. 

Here,
I write about your candle-lit room
inside a red building (with an odd name, perhaps?),
in a place drunk with lambent jugglery.
In my head, you are my
least-favourite city;
I slide my fingers against
your perfect, gossamer skin;
and devour every word
that you intend as poetry. I
travel, I speak a new language, I forget
about home

The truth,
of course, is
convoluted.
You ran out of hyperboles
because you shan't yield all your secrets;
And I
forgot about home
because there isn't one.

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