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.