As I am smoking the second last cigarette of the day from the balcony
I am seeing greased leaves rumbling in steady wind.
This is that time of the day when I don’t see anything,
I don’t get anything.
I don’t utter anything.
I just write to feel occupied.
There are two men getting outside from the ground floor in their motorcycles…
They are going to their night jobs.
What ancient way to exhaust the nights…they are good people,
they don’t drink, they don’t smoke either…
they just blink their unused eyes and smile on lousy jokes.
But I like their women, I see them from tiredly closed doors,
you can see only their good parts from there.
The valleys of their assess, the distance between their eyes, the frozen cleavages.
They don’t know how they are desired in their manless nights.
I can always hear their footsteps but there is no individuality in the sound of people’s walking,
and I have always wanted them to be free from all the glitches and generalities.
Anyway two of them are disappearing amidst the distant fog on the night roads…
They will never know how their women get untwisted every night in their absence…
The last light is fading from the opposite high-rise,
getting covered by old animal instincts.
After sometime it will be 3 am in the morning. I am going to smoke the last one and get to my bed…
There will be vibration in my floor from the warm breathings of those lone downstairs ladies
and I am going to put out the light blue lamp in my room.
I promise it will be the last light to be taken out from this part of the universe.


Photograph: Google images.