turn 
     ing
spinning
turning on my own axis
slow and not steady
sometimes i pass the moon and we talk
she brews lemon grass kehwa
drizzles  cinnamon powder
i add honey
swirling it round and round
till we merge in the elements
darkness smells of cinnamon and you

you say you are here
                         you
                         say
i look for you
maybe i do not look
for you
the vortex blurs my
sight
or mayhe
you are not here
maybe i am blind

march is a sorry month
all months are apologetic
some paneeri grew into
voluptuous dahlias
others decided to die alone
lazily the bougainvillea leaned over a neem
hiding its sorrows in its
thick bosom

crevices in my moon
huddle to cradle my losses
it’s gashes match mine
        you say you were here
footsteps of an ancient presence
were we together?
will we meet?
I’ll set a dastarkhuaan for three
you me and the moon
but
when the moon recedes
i’m afraid you won’t come
and
when the moon is full
you will be busy

we make plans
and never meet
maybe
we meet when
the plans die
with my moon’s cycle
tainted by time
timing to dream
a blind woman
dreaming around
the moon cycle
fourteen days
perfectly dying
at dusk
resurrecting at dawn
inhaling cinnamon-you
exhaling moon slivers
vortex masses of
memories splashing
across galaxies
those meteors
they are them
when you look up
know that
just that

…

Dee is from lahore. loves old trees, words and surreal nights~