tonight the moon hangs in the sky,
a solitary fanush over the curzon gate,
lone ranger lighting up ranigunj chowmatha, where if you stand still
you can hear the train rattle through this sleepy silent town,
and sometimes i think i am still on a train to glasgow.
what does it mean to indulge someone?
you got time to kill? yeah.
coffee? why not.
i remember getting on your big black bike, always headed for nowhere.
do you remember me?
it rained mid-afternoon,
uncharacteristic of delhi,
i had a plane to catch (the first of many)
and we watched pakeezah in bed.
meena kumari dancing in a pink palatial mansion,
she moves like water drop on a lotus leaf;
her body smeared in henna green,
her eyes wistful,
and i remember thinking
when she dares her audience to never stir;
and we were both young, pious,
foolishly stir-crazy in my small bed,
an afternoon stolen from a lecture on fowles.
will you wait for me?
i have brought back 75 kilograms worth of memories from scotland,
and none of them smell like you.
will you write to me?
will you tuck a kiss between my toes?
begging was last resort, never a pastime,
but you moved your tongue in sugarcoat on ten thousand places, all of them being one single
mouthful of drowsy afternoon.
swollen lips, clutching a papercup of steaming hot foam,
you call out my name and i am reminded of the hans vandekerckhove (bar bricolage, oil on
canvas) that you love so much.
the colours remind you of october when the city turns into halloween orange and i know the
night isn't over yet,
and i wonder if it is enough.
i have been growing bonsai in your hair,
and all over you, alone.
baby, do you hear the train? mine or yours? it is just a train stop away.
central station? the green one?
king’s cross, platform eleven - i missed the train to london because the one guarantee i fail at is
do you think the greatest love stories which are never written- (oh, like mine and yours?)
always begin, pause, and end on a rail-track?
no need to get down. no need for movement.
baby, you are always moving. baby, i am moving away.
baby, when you wake up and look at me in the morning through your long black lashes,
your eye is wisteria in spring
and i have to practice breathing once again.
Adrija is a multilingual poet from India working mostly with themes intersecting gender, class, language, space, and sexuality