wind.

Sometimes I like to think about you
when I’m on my own like this:
looking at the sun and
a wind is blowing.
I imagine as the wind rustles through the leaves,
heavier and faster, and in between my fingers—
I imagine it carries my touch to you.
Wherever you are.
And it touches you as gently as it is touching me,
and I hope you imagine you’re touching me too.

Old Digha, West Bengal, India.
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You won’t understand.

Tell me this—

would you be a part of it?

my life:

an archaeological site of silences,

brush away those cobwebs in corners

and you’ll find absences,

and fissures

which hold no answers.

 

 

If you’re looking for a clue, there’s none to be understood.

 

 

You ask,

how maps can take me away across seas

and give me wings;

you

don’t understand,

that words do travel—fill the crevasses of my mind and invent kingdoms.

you

don’t understand,

and you never will: that our inventions are as different

as sepia-toned nostalgia and brightly coloured daydreams.

 

You

cannot understand,

I only want to be free of all of you,

because you

refuse to understand,

that dull shades of grief sometimes do appear

and none of it is supposed to cohere.