Burnt out

Writing
from inkless pens
of translucent sadness
leaving an impression
illegible
only to feel
in sunken depths
of lifeless paper

Flowers on the pavement

The whole road was laid by fallen flowers. Crushed, defeated, they left behind a few wet tears maybe, as spidery patterns on the black road.

I loved those flowers. The elegant pale green stalks that burst open into five feathers of white. And the yellow stalks that peeped out shyly from within. One always longs to look beyond confines.

And we walked... talked occasionally. The smart crisp sound of steps in an unfailingly regular pattern on the otherwise silent road.

Those were the 'certain' years. One was certainly not a kid. One was certainly not old. One was certainly uncertain.

A fainéant beach breeze of the summer evening, a trifle warm. I watch him gather flowers of all colors. They make a startlingly colorful bunch.

There is a bend on the road home. The steps become shorter. Reluctant. We'd gathered more than just flowers. And none of it could be taken home.

The front lights are already on.

We stay out a little longer. Lying under the damp shade of the tree he places flower by flower on my hair. I laugh. I know how ridiculous it all would've looked. He smiles.

We now walk back home. Again.

The flowers drop one by one. And our steps away from what we've left behind.

The last one stays, trapped somewhere between tenacious strands. I like it that way.

It's still there; in between the pages of a book I no longer read.

Do you know how long longing can be?

Childhood friends are something else. Years of silence, mistrust and pain vanish with that single 'hello' over a long distance call. And the fact that he recognizes your voice- its time to brush those tears that weren't called for.

How did you know its me?, I have to know.

I've called you too many times to hear this voice.

Let them fall, the tears.

And I lean on him across the distance... once again, after so many years.

More than a fistful of sky

The anklets slip off the moment he touches them. They always went even before he called. He never called.

He plays with my toe ring. I wince a little when he finally manages to remove it. There is always reluctance in parting.

He's got the most beautiful fingers I've ever seen. The long stalks that held pencils, pens, paint brushes, cigarettes and women among others. Cigarettes didn't suit him some years ago. They now do.

Women. It was a singular thing in his life before. The past never is really past. I always look back.

Tell me about her. And her. And her. And every one of them. 8 years of women to catch up with.

The numbers and name roll off his tongue.

Really? So many?, I never ask.

And the sex?

Its always been interesting. Its different... different women different times and same woman different times.

Oh.

Tell me more.

We never had secrets. And when we finally did, they ate us up. Secrets not shared become bigger than you and they gobble you up.

It was a train journey. The flimsy curtains showed more than they covered. But one hoped they covered more. Train seats aren't really meant for two to lie. And in that lay all the fun.

He stops abruptly. He stretches his hands towards me.

His fingers that unhooked many layers off many women. His fingers that trembled when they wrote his address on a book I still have saved. Fingers that caught a handful of sky, more sky than my small ones ever could. They're still as beautiful.

I'd lent out what was mine.

I take them. Back.