Hand-in-hand, we melt in burning
Trudging along the sunset point.
Stumbling over, rising,
Ebbing and flowing each day
We meet at the end of staircases,
Running deep, swimming
In torrid questions,
Checking all our pockets
For residual money, candy dreams
Which can never be ours.
Gazing in the mirror for
Acne spots and strands of grey hair,
We are complete in each other’s
Jagged edges and faltering
Hand-in-hand, burning, melting,
Yet loaded and hungry,
We are afloat in tinted waters,
Our tarnished voices reaching out
In arid screams and songs.
Lopa Banerjee. February 11, 2015