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

About Yash:
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.

2017-04-16 03.58.55 2.jpg

Artwork by Winston Chmielinski

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