Write me letters

fill the pages with tales of love, hardship,

embarrassment, or run-of-the-mill thoughts.

we have inherited an ethereal,

nameless bond through the walk of time. 

Do not stop talking to me

when you take the next seat

in a lonesome local park bench,

we owe it to ourselves

to finish the story we started

and then cast some spell

to what we have not.

We live in the unceremonious streets

of Grant Street, Mumbai

a place where wear-and-tear

is breathing down on our neck;

time slows down around 

this fateful crossroad.

I miss the simmering of youth,

and gorgeous dreams on sleepless eyes,

the storieswe painfully penned

and folded neatly within our wrinkles,

scream silently. 

Write to me my friend, uninterrupted

like the last Monsoon we have seen.