A cold bath in the winter.

A fiery Sunday: with cold sweat that trickles down your back when you stop running.

A lonely day, hair bouncing on my shoulders: the music loud enough for me not to be really listening to it. Whenever I come around you seem to be busy… what are you doing today? The water sparkles in your hair; you shake your head and little droplets land on my face, my throat and ears. Won’t you look at me?

Okay we’ll sit in your garden. Put our feet on the moist grass. Sit under the neem tree, cross legged, far from the nirvana we should be looking for.

It’s always you and me and no one else.

What is this orbit we’ve carved out for ourselves?

Who are you, who am I today? What is this horrifyingly banal banter we’re filling our spaces with?

--x--

My convex stomach fits perfectly into your concavity

--x--

The red flowers of spring are faded and too far.

Must you leave?

--x--

A cold bath in the winter
Steels your nerves
Helped me get over losing my mother

Isn’t it also good for your skin?