Paper-Flowers

My ink pot of red

By the side of our mahogany table

Awaits patiently

For the steel nib

Of my old Parker pen.

On the cold red floor

Lies scattered some papers of an old book

Yellow and frail with age

Dog-eared pages are slit

With some edges grainy.

Yesterday, I baked some vanilla

It was French, with eggs and sugar

And a piece of cinnamon stick

Inside the house, it smelled divine

With the warm notes of spices lot.

After the cake with some tea

I bid bye to the porcelain pot

And brought out the sandals

You bought for the rains

Of June and July.

It is summer, not yet monsoon

With our paper-flowers full in bloom

Of pinks and purples

Of reds and roses

They thrive aloud with the sun.

As the sun was setting,

I settled down,

Under the blooms of our favourite pink

With no small birds nor those beetles

It was silent and still like a corpse.

In the breeze which flew southwards,

Vanilla and cinnamon reached my side.

Me with them under the tree

Thought of those nights

Of yours and mine.

Those nights of the pregnant moon

With your head full of tales

Of lands and lives, far and wide

We dropped down under this pink

And rose with the sun in the dawns.

Alone beneath the blooms yesterday,

I loathed every single mile between us.

In that chasm of split between your body

And mine

Is where my dreams drown and die.