December

My finger on the window 
Made a rainbow in the dust
And I could see my watered down mirage 
Gasping in surprise 
Laughter; a dry mist 
From the flesh of my throat 
As if my heart knew the humour 
Was the one that I wrote 
(I wonder if the people sitting at the table
Can hear, discern, decode, confirm)

I should have worn socks
It’s cold;
The floor, the walls, the ceiling 
The curtains, the furniture, the feeling
Should I wear it now?
My toes are already numb
And the ankles ache 
Yes, a mistake
To wear it now
Better to regret not wearing it at all
Than knowing the comfort I lost
It won’t solve 
Anything
As such

It is December 
I do not remember the last December 
Or the one before 
All the memories of past winters
Are glued together 
Indecipherable 
I was alone then
In more ways than one
Incomplete, high strung 
To come easily undone 
But not anymore…

She came from far
The horizon was her home 
I knew her reflection 
Was same as my own
Yet the ocean between us
This sapphire separation 
Was daunting, nigh haunting 
With adrift ships and lost anchors 
And mad sailor men upon the shore 
And lighthouses blinking 
“Advance No More”

We sell paper boats now
Made of torn poetry 
And write poems upon onion peels
And ripe tomatoes 
It’s beautiful 
The fragrance of homemade chicken
And her smile 
And that nodding head
And the dancing waist
She is happy 
So am I
This December 
So am I…