Sunday, July 8, 2007

scrap

Written in delhi in some bitter cold december evening. A scrap of paper folded neatly and tucked inside a diary. Scribbled names and nothings and limericks at the back. Every drop of ink carried memories of the cold night with the cold wind.

Tamarind sunsets and multilayered evenings and streetwalks and cardigans and fog. Misty taste of frost and shadows and figures strutting along the streets. The verandah was cold and switching over in contrast my cold fingers held the hot mug of capuccino. Beyond the veiled glass, inside the womb of the room, I could see pooja drying her hair. Hot water..mmmm…I draw in the scent of the warmth of a hot bath. Then I opened my eyes to find her hurrying me to finish off my cup of brewing comfort and join her in the symposium preparation for tomorrow. I gulped down fifteen minutes of leisure and siphoned in 84 mm long smoke generator. Sigh!

One day I shall be that mist, that frosty cold, that december evening.

I shall make you numb.:)

1 comment:

whatsinaname said...

Your poem smells of a pristine mist. A dreary forlorn music and a lover's bleeding heart. Loved your poem. Keep blogging!