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And in another city, Love runs dry!

And in another city,
When the lights have faded
Where the stars look jaded.
The couples hold hands
Their wrinkled skins
Clenched in unison,
Together we sink.

And in another city,
Where the sun doesn’t keep its date
The rain has a mind of its own
Cupid ne’er strikes on its own.
Lovers don’t fight here,
All quarrels are a waste
Most love here runs in a spate.

And in another city,
Heartbreak is not a norm.
Single, solos, stags
Words that all avoid
Like the plague

And I wonder now
I look at the mausoleum
I look at the museum
I look at the writing on the wall
I look at Memories.

Made by lovers
Proclaiming endless love
Against shiny walls
And painted nails.

Like most things true,
Love has runs its course

And in another city
Love has come full circle.

She Says, He Says

She: Let’s have a moment
He: You mean like now?
She: Yes, now!
He: Erm, OK then.
Pause

She: Do you miss me when you are not with me?
He: What kind of a question! You know the answer.
She: No, I don’t
He: yeahhh, well. I do!

She: good.
He: what is this for?

The phone buzzes in the coat pocket.

She: You know what they say – quit when ahead
He: Who is the “they”?
She: The universe, the janta
He: And you saying this…?

The phone vibrates again.

She: it’s time to quit, Stud Boy!
He: No, not now!
She: Why not?
He: I need you the most now.

She smiles.

She: But I don’t! Actually, I haven’t for a while now.

The phone rings again.

She: Yes, I am ready.

The Colour of Love

Sunday

The telephone rang.

She hopped and skipped and jumped towards it.

There was no mobile connectivity here.

“What is your favourite colour?”

“What if I hadn’t picked up the phone?”

“I would have hung up.”

“Smart.”

“What is your favourite colour?”

“Red. Blue. Sometimes white.”

“Three. Uff.”

“Why do you ask?”

“Just.”

“Colour therapy you want to try?”

“No. I want to get to you know better.”

Wednesday

The doorbell rang.

There was a parcel for her.

She looked at the orange wrapping-paper as she peeled it, layer by layer.

She called him up.

He answered on the third ring.

Nervous.

“I told you my favourite colours.”

“I know.”

“Why this then?”

“I thought it will look nice.”

“It’s not me!”

“Give it a chance. Like you are giving me.”

Broken Love & bone-China plates

Sometimes we fight, sometimes we don’t
But that’s the code of lovers
Across boundaries and countries
And naturally, as is wont.

Sometimes it’s cheerful when you are there
There is hope in your laughter
Love in the afternoon air
And mirth in the banter.

Sometimes we fight,
For OUR love that is now a right.

Sometimes I cry and cry and cry
Over broken promises, jilted dates
And there is some angst
That meets its fate in bone-China plates.

Oh and when,
Did our love get so trivialised,
And so domesticated
And much shackled?

I was the hope,
You were the dream
Together we were a team
Of love unknown and lovers unseen.

In parting, there is love

The winter afternoon’s o’er
Time is running thin.
And then you kiss me,
Like a kiss is meant to be.

You touch my lips,
Run your fingertips
O’er my worry lines.

You take away my stress
I rarely say – but you do

You make me wish I could
Have more of you.

Now you look at me
Hungry and kind

In parting, there is love
A lot of it unsaid
But meant true.

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