You were in your shorts,
you came in your summer dress.
You came as colours
and I wish I could give you my that part also
where you don’t belong.
Your wet nipples could be seen gazing through the cold grass field,
the sky was grey but it had every chance to showcase the blues…
We drank to our concurrence,
we talked about the valley and lot more,
and at night it seemed the world had changed…it seemed completely empty from movements towards death.
I know these poems will stop one day…but I guess it’s not the poems that makes us patient…
It’s the voids of words that do.
That painted monsoon can’t be erased…that looks of translucency can’t be ignored,
there’s a time for everything
but the queer invisibility will never be banished…
Let the bonfire die with the love of this thin rain…
It’s beautiful that way.

…………………………………………………………….

Photograph: Lee Acaster.