Once on the phone with you
a sentence of sorts died in me
before it could incubate under my tongue.
and by died I mean it flew out
like from a dirty body, like fucking finally.
It didn’t even look back.
(But when you did)
Parts of me, looking on, felt the cold.
and of course, I mean the way you
must have looked (or not looked). A salik
flies into my balcony, where our call has taken me
The next time you open your mouth
I will reach into you and pull out
something pink and alive. A bus and two rickshaws
have brought me to your house.
I dreamed of us in your bedroom.
And me more than the sentences
that have jumped off me like a desperate lover
(but not you) with a sense of abandon
in your causal footsteps fading away