The clock strikes 8 PM
We are in the midst of some
Spaghetti and meatballs
Talking about what transpired
During the day. We are an anti-thesis
Of passion, how we start the conversation
With the most boring fact;
How the street dog looked a little ill today
Or how the traffic was a menace.
And still that is enough to sustain us.
Little anecdotes like how the crashing drumbeats
My wife listens to alone, is nothing like house-music
And the poems I type are
As idiosyncratic as a pair of Jodhpur pants
And still, we will never go out of fashion,
Or out of love.
Why we don’t make sense
Is what defines us. Two people
In one room, who disappear
To the night, like the prairie grass,
A room as white as arum lilies,
The fragrance of jasmines
Creeping in through the open window pane,
As we are blunted by the long day, and still, we
Let our bodies scramble together
A little twig-fire, that burns
Like a campfire, and we like marshmallows
Losing our color, just like how the night
Swallows the shadows, and all that is left,
Are two beings in an anemic confluence
Giving meaning to our world.
And we are only
Match stick figurines that burn in a flash
And still, those phosphoric moments
Stay with us, like a sighting
Of an obscure comet, and soon we are blurring away
To the night, our eye lashes closing…
And the night drapes her inhabitants
In chameleon skin and look at us,
Making ourselves irrelevant,
Under an opal moon.