Rusted Window, Moon and the Distance Between Us

The azaan breaks down at the hint
of sunlight while the moon dissolves
itself into the sky at the arrival of the sun.
My sullen, drunk eyes, waiting for you,
are fixed on the rusted window.
You arrive a bit late today.
I see you through the worn down
grills of the window. Fragments of a
distant you. My brain gives up on
completing the picture of you.
How dreamy are those eyes?
How cloudy is your hair?
How soft and pink those lips are?
How deep are the valleys your curves make?
How slender are those fingers?
How tender is the waistline?
When mind gives up, the heart takes over.
So, I decided to take a stroll down your place.
And I see you, hasty steps, a bag in hand,
treading the path between
your mosque and my temple.
Violet dupatta leaving a mesmerizing
scent behind; pink kurti wrapped
over dreams; dark hair overshadowing storms;
whiskey eyes enough to drown you at a whiff;
pale earlobes holding my breaths
and your oversized earrings;
blushed cheeks and rose lips;
elegant steps, and surreal aura.
You reach the stop and help
your sister climb up the school bus. And I’d watch.
Watch like the ever-present moon in mid-day,
which hides behind all the lights.
Watch you from distance.
So close yet so far. Like the distance
between your mosque and my temple.

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