When she’s gone,
He stands in the street that runs outside his home
And searches for his face
In the eyes of the crowd.
The wind is still, fettered perhaps
while leaves look for echoes in the silence of afternoons.

And as he walks,
He leaves behind alternate selves,
Some dropped near his footmarks on the beach,
Some at the coffee table,
Some at the watering hole
While the band plays a song it assembled yesterday.

Love is a four letter word, he thinks,
It does not take much space.
Space that is fluid,
A week ago it was a sea.
Since then it has flown to form a wall.
The vacuum expands,
One breath at a time.



Her hand holds the edge of the wind
While she walks, the roses sniff the air
And pray for a drop of her eyes to stay back,
Just a little, not forever,
After all, for how long can a rivulet flowing downhill be held back?

It’s feared the sun may forget to sink into the horizon
As it finds itself enmeshed in her tresses,
A speck of time lingers with patience
Hoping to catch the shadow of her,
And keep it locked away.

Who knows?
Tomorrow may come wrapped in a blue,
Paler or brighter,
Obscuring the splendour of today.