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Time lies with the bundle
of ink smeared
old चिट्ठियां
under my bed,
covered in cobwebs
and dust.

The white bougainvilliea
that blooms
in my garden
resembles the
चिकनकारी dupatta
you adored.

The one that your अम्मा
passed down to you,
from her mother.
Love feels like those
blue and purple kites
soaring in the sky,
strings attached
to perishable human hands.

My old maestro CD player,
still rewinds to
आज जाने की ज़िद न करो।
Those books that
we bought together
from the पुराना बाजार,
still smells of petrichor.

The other ones
which I borrowed
from you,
stand in the far corner
of my bookshelf.

Withered petals of
dry old daisies
between the pages
of those books
still remain.
You never asked for them.

Highlighted texts
with red ink,
the smell of your बाबा’s इत्तर,
black-and-white photographs
of your अम्मा,
scribbles all over the books
I’ve held on to everything.

Past memories hit me
like the winter sunlight
peeking through the curtains
of my room.
Feeble and subtle.

Some mornings
I stand in my balcony
waiting for the sun
to show,
and reminisce along with it.

Raindrops on my palm
लिपस्टिक marks
on tissue papers,
the smell of cinnamon
and चाय।

Meeting outside
the city limits,
long walks
to the end of the park,
hours would go by
words never ended.

Nostalgia feels like
splashes of
soothing गुलाबजल,
Lilies blooming
by the lake.

Sunset caught in टेलीफोन wires,
midnight phone calls,
shared bites of
chocolate icecream cones
And heartbreaks
that never heals.


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Skye M

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