New Writing Vol. 3
I was baptised with dead saffron and don’t know what simple games of your childhood sound like.
It was the summer before her final year of college when Vaidehi first saw Suresh Babu.
I could roll the window down to let out your scent, your presence that lingers here beside me like all the bad choices I’ve made.
Her joints are stiff, but it’s nothing to worry about. It’s her natural condition.
Alice pressed her palm to the cool glass as her husband snipped away at the fabric that would form his fourth hat that week.
Like every other time, I couldn’t crawl into your first verse or your second, your bridge or your chorus.
When she sipped from the flowers, she would make sure that her wings were stretched out and displayed properly for him.
Bright lights flash about her, and the city steeps in her lap for an unexpected reunion.
One slip is all it takes for this night of loneliness to culminate in a crescendo of muffled moans and suppressed sighs.
