You are young.
Softer than you think, a
Mountain range made by a seven year old
Curves and soft lines,
Pastel shades running amok
Not perfect, but
Loved,
Stuck on your mother's pinboard-heart.
You are young.
The sun falls quieter. It is Delhi, it is hot
In a way no other place is
It is Saturday
In a way no other day is
And the sun is streaming in, making little storms
out of the specks.
There is nothing to do except admire the blankness of the sun
Turning the floors golden.
Turning the bed stands golden.
Turning the ends of your fingers pink,
Your cheeks golden,
You do not know it
But you are a lion cub,
transforming.
You are young.
You stay up full nights, re-viewing people fall in love
In the cheapest of ways.
There is nothing novel about love
Or its massive potential,
yet each second watched tells you the familiar ways
We invent to be made softer, made more tactile;
the familiar ways
In which we always search for lost objects.
and what do you do with lost things
except
make vague maps and ways
to remember?
***
Found:
A bubble blown in a child's face.
A leaf turning crimson where Autumn doesn't happen.
A bottle of perfume you only remember my scent.
The white flowers left after sudden rain.
A dog sniffing your hand, wagging her tail.
A poem you copy out because it
made the world slow down
and made you want to do something with your hands.
Found:
The sound of laughter as the sun disappears and the cool breeze breaks making the branches break into waves and a make a brown dog circle his tail and two coffee cups on a red table tap dance and shake and you realize it was you, the sound of laughter was you, and all this magic and not for a second did you think that
Everything in the world loves you.
