You walk in with wild laughter
Closer to me than my own beating heart.
And so begins a game
Of calculated moans and touches,
Trading self conscious phrases
Afraid of what they sound like.
Manifestations of impressions
So necessary, to germinate
Our suburban romance,
Or so it seems.
When really, all it takes
Is your half lit face in dismay
As the land breeze sifts through your mahogany hair,
A bottle of Goldspot in some
South Bombay café whose name eludes me, always.
You talking about Bergman and Polanski
With the familiarity of old lovers
As the wind smokes the Goldflake
You forget about in the ashtray.
By Yash Pandit
Yash Pandit is a student hailing from Bombay, India. His work has appeared in various journals like VAYAVYA, Textploit, The Sunflower Collective, Cafe Dissensus Daily, Random Poetry Tree and various other journals.
Artwork by Winston Chmielinski