Broken umbrellas, smoke from diesel cars, one feverish bus stop, my first erected penis; sitting on a Ganga ghat, my garden of mountains and pebbles, my sleeping pills, the stigma around the beautiful brothels, winter rains, an evening of spilling Gazals with baritone whiskey…

You won’t get any of it. You won’t get me…you won’t get you. You won’t get that concrete roof which knows vastness but don’t know the reptiles that crawl around there…

You will only get this evening poem of mine… written in the silence of a summer depression. Tell me when you are ready to make our affair public…make me aware when you are ready to have extramarital with me.

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Photograph: Sebastian Jacobitz.