Echoes

The crevices of my mind echo with your name.

Empty corridors that catch lonely beams of sunlight resting idly on streams of suspended dust and eat them up in dark niches of hollow stairwells beg for the sound of more stolen kisses. Traffic that once roared with the black smoke of angry cars is mute since you took that auto-rickshaw ride with me, with your head resting on my shoulder and declared in a suddenly solemn voice, a desire surreal.

Crowds of commuters file past us into slithering serpents of nouveau progress, as we hiccup and greedily gulp our share of sanity. Endless journeys take no time. Ceaseless waiting ends before it begins. Ironed words and genteel glances caress our senses in ways unmentionable in parochial realms of public scrutiny. In the single scratch that your nails make on my parched skin, lies etched the orgasmic reality of my illusion.

Sweat that lines the hem of my thermal reeks with the ferocity of your love bites. The button of my shirt lodged between the dusty cushions of the old sofa in the attic is the last witness to fallen restraints. The floor boards still creak. The skylight window is still broken. The baby sparrows have long grown up and flown away.

The crevices of my mind still echo with your name.