Radha- Krishna

He pushes me aside,
at the break of dawn,
and reaches for his clothes
that are still muddy from 
last night’s rain.

“Where’s my flute?” he asks,
while I groan and roll over,
the little blades of grass
entangle themselves in the 
long locks of my unruly hair.

When he kisses me hard on the lips, 
he whispers
something I cannot hear.
“Rukmini?” I ask,
and he strokes my cheek,
smiling that smile.

I watch new footprints
form, on the now-soft ground,
He does not look back as he turns the
corner

But
I know
He will soon return — for
the flute he’s left at my side.