When We Talk

Like, how icy fingers and sweet fatigue
We wake up with
(Did it rain in our dreams?)
Linger at our memories edge.
You look outside the window and the leaves are wet, the city cold.

Like, how fragrance of cut-grass
We walk past by
On a hot summer day
Cannot be remembered again.
The breeze shifts, and now brings you stories of crowded, hot towns.

Raining Rays

In the bus, a girl turned her head, the sunlight caught her nose-ring and made her the dazzling beauty in the whole world at that moment.

The little boy stood barefoot, his sandals nearby, his hands held in a prayer. He was facing the temple on the other side of the road, the sun beating down mercilessly.

Under the dim streetlight, a passerby whispered a long sentence. Sometimes not knowing the language is a boon.

Someone paced through the crowded cafe, cellphone to the ear, oblivious to the noise. He had a swimmer's body.

There is an S-curve in the lawn. A leading-line on the third floor towards the evening sun, a perfect-golden-red.

The neighbour's 2-year old imitated my 'haeyyy'. Her mother was wearing pearl drop earrings.