Greens become auburn in the turn of day.
Not one more drop is enough
to keep your bloom like before.
Spring. Fleeting.
I could not recall.
Ethereal.
Stars are unmoved with the gentlest waft.
Blow me a whistle,
if whistles are not mockeries.
A stroke. A stir.
I can barely feel.
Elemental.
Sweet-smelling chlorine turns toxic to clean.
Douse your feet in the cold,
dancing stream.
Tingling. Scorching.
I stay submerged.
Sentimental.
Your warmth speaks to me like ten years past.
The glorious rays race down
where dewdrops cease to dwell.
Parched. Poignant.
It makes me think of home.
Eternal.
Days spent on sleepless attempts to sleep.
But I shall stay unfazed,
until the monsoon reaches east.
A chance. A gap.
I'll be waiting for June. #
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