Every morning
A few drops of the sun fall into the mundane:on rooftops,
rosemary bushes in backyards with children playing hopscotch,
your eyes a mixture of hazel and the grey sky,
Copper of the wind chimes and the silence before storm.
Every morning
The willow gets a day older, you stand in crowds
Of men in white shirt, trimmed nails and dry lips,
All looking alike and walking the same: a march
Of steel bodies, controlled and carefully operated.
Every morning
Rust eats a bit more of the guitar strings
While you do taxes, wait in traffic on rainy days,
Call out names in coffee shops, steal glances
Of the girl by the window who books a table for two,
Though she’s always the only one.
Every morning
She asks your name as if you have a new each day,
Comments on the weather while you look at her lips,
Read poetry written in shades of red while the sun melts down and the willow grows old.
One morning,
You wake up different
Run down lanes, scream names of all the three hundred sixty and five people you are,
Pick up jasmines and weave them into your hair,
Visit coffee shops and tell them how everything and life too is unnecessarily overrated.
Find the girl by the window
Tell, her friend is long gone
But she’s not alone, She’s one of the billion lonely people Piling up hopes and giving them shape of a human,
That you are too.
And before the sun melts all ask her for a dance,
Steal sunshine and paint her yellow, Pick your guitar up and play your favourite tune,
Taste poetries from her lips and turn them into songs.