Of stars.

Its January and you can’t believe it yet.

If we are born under the stars, then some stars have died and the moon shines too bright trying to crack open the concrete of the night at 9.

You walk with stars girdled around your waist and eternity crowning your temples, and from my seat in the third row I can only clap you in and clap you out again. The ink I was meant to scribble down the astronomical equations of my future with slips through my fingers and leaves a trail on the runway behind the clicking of your heels.

The masked glass is splattered with the stardust of the first monsoon showers. Humidity builds up in the metal bus with rattling loose parts on the way back home. The sculptor’s urban hut of blue plastic and brick on the highway is close to collapsing, straw and jute left unmoved at the feet of a clay woman, hands raised in position.
“Raagi dosa, you want?”
This world was made from simple words and I shall sip the drink of the gods.

Its too sunny to be this cold, but there is no warmth that come from the orange afternoon in the yard. Its getting harder to feel great again and easier to sleep. I really don’t know where this is going.

You can’t make me smile anymore and I stopped being enough. Don’t know when that happened.
“I don’t know, you tell me. Water?”
The gods are dead.

I’m afraid I’ll never go beyond the numbers in score cards and words on a blog, that you’ll forever be the face of a younger lover shackled to yellow buses and green sweaters in the winter and crying in pale light.


But the cherry trees have blossomed early and cherry perfume smells of nothing but desperation in cold weather. Lavender comes with the new year and a dead man’s things to call your own.


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