Monsoon, Wet Cigarettes and Two Reflection

Hey, how have you been?
It rained in my city today and
I took out the umbrella you left at my place.
It doesn’t open in a go,
stubborn as you are,
waits for my left and your right,
holding still tight,
waits for shoulders crashing;
random giggling;
partial wetting;
shadows intertwining;
dreams materializing.
It confines your omnipresence,
looking down on me when I step
out for a cigarette in this monsoon.
Monsoon, remember, was our favorite season.
Now it’s just a million potholes
and my one lonely soul (is it?). Hey, do you still smoke Dunhills
with black coffee?
I do, now.
It’s a ritual I hated;
a taste I acquired;
a habit I now call home.
I sip from a thermos, struggling to
light a half wet cigarette.
It refuses to burn nonchalantly
like I did.
It forces to burn deliberately from inside
like you did.
And now it’s burning in all the wrong ways
like we did.

Hey, did it rain in your city today?
It’s pouring in mine as whiskey used to in
your parched heart.
The whiskey glasses, the roads,
the windshields, the potholes,
the walls, the azures,
have all become mirrors today.
A distorted reflection gawks back
at me every time I dare glance in them.
Objects in the mirror are closer than they appear,
read the droplets-painted mirror of a car.
What about her soul trapped inside me,
is it closer than it appears to be?
I asked the mirror and
smacked it into two.
A reflection cried from pain,
the other smiled, just like you.


Photo by Chris Kane from Pexels

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