You
vagabond, gypsy, wanderer
you nomad, you homeless man
with a pocket full of change that has wavering value
I remember you carried around your neck : a key
and smelled of bubble-gum
the scent of which found home in my nose
when you buried your face in my hair and inhaled sharply
the spasmodic sigh of a man who I had thought could never be shocked
It is said your life span is proportional to the number of breaths you take
You believed left over tea leaves predict the future
and studied my palm for hours to find a way home
Across three generations, I was famed as the lady with poise
only you knew I could not drink and walk without spilling and stumbling
On nights like these, I need to be writing stories like yours
striking off and scrawling again those little details
about how you only slept in houses with red bricks
and Erhu- the Chinese violin that was the secret of your music
With the fatal morning, comes the memory of your voice
and the light of sense goes out
I turn towards the well-placed envelopes; good intentions
and think about how despite ourselves
we manage to knot up the things we love most
As I sift through each day, so desperate and hungry
I remember you told me that a tortoise breathes 4 times a minute
and lives to be one fifty
I breathe slowly
sometimes it is bound to be a long wait
Is it any wonder then, that the scorching sand
reminds me of you?
you nomad, you homeless man
with a pocket full of change that has wavering value
I remember you carried around your neck : a key
and smelled of bubble-gum
the scent of which found home in my nose
when you buried your face in my hair and inhaled sharply
the spasmodic sigh of a man who I had thought could never be shocked
It is said your life span is proportional to the number of breaths you take
You believed left over tea leaves predict the future
and studied my palm for hours to find a way home
Across three generations, I was famed as the lady with poise
only you knew I could not drink and walk without spilling and stumbling
On nights like these, I need to be writing stories like yours
striking off and scrawling again those little details
about how you only slept in houses with red bricks
and Erhu- the Chinese violin that was the secret of your music
With the fatal morning, comes the memory of your voice
and the light of sense goes out
I turn towards the well-placed envelopes; good intentions
and think about how despite ourselves
we manage to knot up the things we love most
As I sift through each day, so desperate and hungry
I remember you told me that a tortoise breathes 4 times a minute
and lives to be one fifty
I breathe slowly
sometimes it is bound to be a long wait
Is it any wonder then, that the scorching sand
reminds me of you?
