The Bells.

The tree had bent old at your backyard,
Dropping fires of red on the ground.
You came visiting in the afternoons
And I assured the folks were fine.
You handed me a krishnachura,
That you kept twirling between your fingers,
While your mind kept wavering at the thoughts of a distant lover,
And smiled at my complain of not ever getting anything else.
Your eyes almost close when you laugh.
Did I tell I love the way it makes me feel?
I still got those anklets you got for me,
And said you would love to see me wear them everyday.
They are old now,
But the bells still make a sound,
Of made up memories inside my head.
I tuck them away underneath the mattress.
They annoy me for the loud noise you make.

But today I bring them down,
For my granddaughter to wear.
She has the same dusky skin
As your lover, I swear.

Favourite song

You clear your throat,

Ready to hum your favourite tune.

Give it all away to laughter,

You haven't decided which one that must be.

You travel lands to find it behind sunsets;

Or sit with your headphones on,

Scrolling through the albums.

A single white hair glistening on your forehead among all black,

As your laptop gathers dust.

Your blocked nose makes you breathe heavily,

I love listening to that tune.

Your hand strumming the guitar;

You ask me my favourite song,

Unaware that you are it.

You've always been.

So I just smile.

I smile at you.