Nine years ago, my friend, alittle taller than me, with nice
thick, curly hair and I,
stood in front of the air cooler.
We were singing. Our some-
what hormone tinged chords,
distorted by the gust of air.
Half the word would shiver.
Our lips wobbly like rubber.
Woolf had been discovered,
shelved. You asked me what
I wanted. Money. Love. Thin-ness.
I replied. Years later, your glasses
come to memory. You liked to
stand with the wind hitting
your face, only with naked eyes.
I wish now, that I had taken cue.
From that author. Asked for
something unsharable. Like
a room। Or emptiness.
Published by Neha Viswanatha
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