Hiraeth Series – 8

Rain. I murmur the fact
as if you have sewn eyes
and are born without ears.
Still the petrichor will
shove the rain up your nostrils.

You do not know my tongue.
This needs no vocabulary.
Rain. I say.

Two bikes, black, wait for us
in the shade. They look siamese.
And sad.
They have been adopted in
different families.

Rain, deus ex machina, intervenes,
prolongs the moment of togetherness.

Do you smoke? I ask.
I do not. What’s the point
of the question.
Nothing. Nothing.




Kushal Poddar
Image and words

Kushal Poddar lives in Kolkata, India

 Author Facebook- https://www.facebook.com/KushalTheWriter/ 
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