0:00

0:00

You’re dreaming

I’m wandering

Chained to the floor

Under the scathing Moon

Counting the crimson beads

Trickling down my palm

Whispering to an old face

How far I would go

While holding onto my pillow

Sprinting like a maniac;

Searching for a reason

To stay and wait

While you lie asleep

In your quiet world

Of rainbows and curses;

hatred and warmth.

Your dreams have meaning;

Unlike my being.

Dosa

Some curls are fascinating. They keep us hooked even as they vanish into thin air; like the smoke from a dosa thawa. They’re such a delight to watch; especially if we’re in the kitchen during the early hours of the day. The smell of ghee, freshly brewed tea and the cute little curls swirling upwards into the first rays of the Sun… Sometimes I wonder how life would’ve turned out without the dosas! But let’s not digress- we’re here for some curls; like the ones on his head.

Anything is possible for those shiny curls. I can joke about how they’re thicker than the whole of the Amazon forests combined but that would be very inappropriate and alarming. After all, man has done so much to destroy everything fragile; sometimes with a head full of luscious blacks.