Dear,

Yesterday, I stood in a garden redolent with basil, and remembered that first night, storytelling shadows on the wall, your face turned toward the window, away (from me – this I remember clearly), cigarette smoke curling into the air, the lines of Gulzar’s Green being released into the night,

The first time, the first taste of longing,

Neroli and basil burning softly.

***

Dear,

Full moon tonight.

You once told me that a poem is a prayer for the hopeless. Then you went on your knees, murmuring in reverence, or remorse, I couldn’t tell.

That night, I found a poem on my pillow.

It was a full moon then, too.

***

Dear,

A thousand times, yes.

***

Dear,

Our hands fit together perfectly.

Even after all these years,

when the meaning of your name in my mouth has lived a hundred lives,

when the shape of your body against mine has shifted with each grain of time,

when we forget to love each other the way we are supposed to,

Even then,

Our hands fit together perfectly.

***

Dear,

Still, I live you.

…

Arathi Devandran curates personal experiences, snapshots of the world and the stories people are willing to share with her through prose and poetry www.miffalicious.com