Photo by Jerzy Durczak. CC-BY-NC.

It’s difficult to explain
This feeling I have
Everytime we hang up
A call, like that early
morning ride I took
From Mohopada
to Mumbai in search
Of a flight I thought
I would miss, for the taxi
Driver didn’t know
the routes, and all
the walks we took
The night before.
And that cafeteria,
Where I could
Only see and hear
Us; where we had coffee,
Only to walk a bit
More through the night
To have dinner later,
To figure out we were living
Under the same roof?

The loneliness doesn’t kill
Me enough, as much as this
Inability to comprehend,
This utter foolishness
Of consequences.

This stale air cannot
Explain why people
Exchange life, living
And death, the best
And their worst.

We were born with soil
and skin; we must die
With soil. Burnt
or suffocated
Erasing this reality
We never excepted.

Why should we meet,
Then? Or, experience
These unexpected
Moments of belonging?