She pours the milk tea

In two olive colored porcelain cups;

I set the chairs

In the verandah of our little home

facing few distant windows

of a cemented white shed.

The orange of the dawn is

Melting into its wide plate of blue

Like the ripples of water

Spreading across the stillness of the sea.

"The tea's getting cold",

My eyes murmur into her ears

And she looks me through her leaned lids,

Smiling through the sound of the sip.

I take two spoonful of sugar,

She takes one

And drinks it hot the way it is.

I drink my tea half cold

So she could sit beside me a little longer

by the time I drink the last sip

My tea won't go as cold as

the stillness of the sea.

“It’s cold.

I think I needed you here.”

\ Message sent \

I tucked my cell phone back in my pocket and folded my legs enough to lift them up a little higher to make them rest on the bus seat and clutched my right arm around the head rest which was partly cotton flesh and partly cold callous steel, a bare reminder to make me miss his absence more. I carried black hot latte in my left hand but it barely made any difference.

Windows showed no signs of empathy; I could relive my old bus school days drawing lousy

shapes only if my gloves could have allowed. Soon after I realized that my sitting position

resembled a pyramid of cashmere designating that my eyes were on bait with this bizarre

weather.

I could feel the warmth leave the bus like someone’s last letter to his lover from the last

droplets of his ink as soon as people started to take their leave. I surveyed a little through

the atmosphere and could plumb the only scent of humans which reeked of fatigue and

stuffed fabric. I counted the totality of 14 including myself.

“5 more stops to go”, a familiar voice whispered and my subconscious confirmed. I looked

behind but my eyes went foggy. HOW COULD HE POSSIBLY NARRATE MY EXACT

HALT? HOW COULD I MISS TO COUNT ONE MORE HUMAN EXACT BEHIND MY

BACK? My skin follicles stirred up into needles and pins. That voice seemed neither

unfamiliar nor welcomed.

‘Did you check your notification, Valeria?’

THAT VOICE AGAIN! THE VOICE!!! ADAM? BUT HE DIED LAST YEAR.

“It’s cold. I think I needed you here.’

“NO STOP!!!! WHO ARE YOU?” Why did the weather go so hefty I can’t see...? ADAM? You

can’t be? My hands bowled over to unmask his cloudy face.

“I’m here, Vale. Right in front of you“

My entire body froze like an effigy of cadaver. The crisp of the steel could no longer be felt.

He sure was Adam.

ATTIC LAKE HOUSE, AREA 76. The beep buzzed. So my eyes did win the bait. I looked

back once again before departing the bus and smiled. Adam was here.

When I lay on the mellow green

Of the earth

who fosters me like one of its

missing child,

making me drunk on the honey comb

Filtered juice that warms my flesh

from a far away driven sight

and jewel me with its dirt

that smells as though

my entrails have been hidden within,

bewitching me to call it a home.

The autumn wavers its hello

in its brown and crusty foundation

but it feels as if

the spring has crawled on me

Lightly bruising my cuticle,

All naked and archaic

as though It has been waiting for me;

To be the fragrance of the woods

again to be someone

I have always meant to be.

// Even the

Cool ocean's tide

rise against the gravity

when the moon

unveils its parts

Every end of twenty ninth.

Even the

mountains elapse

Over the oblivious clouds

to peck the follicles

Of the sun's rays.

But I,

Like the wolf to its moon

howl to see your sight

and all I could fathom

is your glance

for one half second of my beats;

I see you and unsee you

as if you are breathing

within my eyes. \\

Looking at those amber trees

I sense the fragrance of a past

forgotten parchment memory.

Its aroma drools me over

and entagles me about my being

and I'm bamboozled with this thought

whether it's hugging me or strangling me.

I feel loved but I couldn't feel unseized.

Am I free or am I not?

Is it love or is it not?

The dead petals lie on my ground,

unsalted and deserted

And I feel like crying to leave them a loner

for years of my dusty past

when they needed me to...

Oh! Have I realised it now?

What would they need me for?

"May be to caress them and kiss them

Like how the humans do

To the graves of dead."

Said the branches shading me.

In this garden of amber

where I smell lilies and lavenders

and roses and sunflowers

and sense the shadow of outgrown banyan

and eat from its harboured luxury,

feeling like Alice in wonderland

I keep wondering,

Am I free or am I not?

Is it love or is it not?

"What else do I need to satisfy you with?

You are loved when you are favoured,

You are loved when you regret

For the wrongs of your past,

You are loved when you feel like home

around me".

Said the branches shading me.

If only I didn't make them

my parchment memories,

I wouldn't have questioned

Your love over my guilt swollen worth.

If only I decided to let it sleep

On its natural matress

than my deserted island

I wouldn't have asked

'Is it love or is it not? '

But today

I feel guilt free because

I have mourned my heart

for my dead petals and I will lay

them beneath on the matress of its fate;

One day again when the the bronze of the soil whistles about its fertility

I would know they are happy,

The petals are happy and so am I.

Does home feel like

Pink, purple and blue

of the day

or

Grey, indigo and black

of the night?

I've found my home

under the hue

Of these shades

where the sun and

the moon and the stars

Have kept me sane.

When dust covers the sky

I cover your eyes

and you cloak me under your hoodie,

warm as hot latté and lovely as lavenders.

You feel drunk in love

and I am drunk in you;

Praising the stars, lying under the tree.

I'm a sun and you my garden

I live for you

And you giggle for me.

I thank the fate,

Because I know it exists,

like the shadow of one’s existence,

like the drone and its queen.

Inspired by

https://theprose.com/post/349486/soulmates

I'm one of those

To whom poetry doesn't come

But I go to them.

I try to write a lot of things

But can't brick the words into castle.

I'm one of those

you will meet but your

heart would mind you

To reside within.

I'm one of those

You won't want to talk

and even if you did

You will dig your way out.

I'm one of those

You never wished to meet

but alas! You did

So I'm sorry for your loss.

I'm one of those

who can't afford love

Not even when

My own soul was in need.

Again I can't,

I can't write it down

so I will leave this piece

to let you know

that it's okay if you didn't

even I couldn't love Myself.

.

The wistful winter

all drunk in purple sherbet,

with choked tart of frozen larva

Awaiting on the brink of the sea coast

like the tea bag dipped in tea

for the evening’s supper and sundry toast.

Whisked in dull archaic thoughts,

under loose fit sweaters

and crafted home of hearth

with nut filled cake

and homemade rusk

loafed over the wooden plank.

The breeze of ocean

Or the wallow winter wind

knitting swiftly

through my coat and pores of iced face;

turning mangoes into grapes

and smoke into fog;

And with handful of idled inertia

I doze half-filled on rusk and toast.

\\