Friday, April 10, 2015

In August

In August ache was ageing on bare peepal trees
picked by the pointed beaks of notorious crows 
that took shade on a hot summer afternoon
In August you visited friends living in countries
with strange names
while I confided in strangers
whose names I tried and memorise.

In August you were wearing wings
while catching a flight
or sailing on escalators
on business trips that could be skipped
for a rendezvous with me,
while I leaned listlessly on lifts
and rode on rickety buses with peeling paints.
In August I dressed
in a nine to five folly
to repress solitude's spinster act.

In August we e-mailed
and you called daily
telepathy was the transition
in our voices so vulnerable,
In August defiance doomed to an early death
marvelled at how a continent
and a six hour flight would never let us meet
one I wanted, and that you didn't.

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