This is the part of the poem where I tell you to pay the gas bill, the water bill and get eggs. On Saturday I will text you and tell you I will come early to M’s event so I can avoid the morning traffic. I will leave a measured kiss on your cheek
This is the part where I will make you green tea instead of coffee I will eat your admonishments about nagging, I will tuck your complaints behind my ear like a flower. Your sweet words will hang overhead like dazzling disco ball.
This is the part of the poem where I will arrange our drawers and you will read my diary from 2014. Your dusty kurta will lay on your body like a lover. You will pick an old lip liner And run your lips along my neck. Here, you will casually throw the word love in the air and I will let it decorate my forehead like a moon.
This is the part of the poem where I will tell you that I am a collector of you. But I inquire only about the prices of tomatoes, bananas, onions and shimla mirch. I will delicately slice them into a universal language But you are leaning against the wall disappearing into thoughts. I will ask you about the bills and you will move your bangles carelessly to wave my enquiry off.
In the dark house that night your bangles will clink against the mattress as you will restlessly try to fall into A blueprint of a latent dream, This is the part where I will tell you summer is languidly stretching itself over in our houses and in our beds, amongst our things in us.