my world is made of routines
and aloneness, carefully constructed.
no time for clever word play,
lazy motorbike rides or rhum people.
you are intensely distracting,
and it's not fair
that you should flash your smile
and play that wicked tune
on the silver harmocia,
you mother gave you
on your twenty-first birthday.
it's not fair, not at all,
that i should need bitter oolong
to get the taste of you
from my lips,
that you should exhale smoke
into my mouth, and so easily
entangle my hair into your stories.
stories that would be illogical in daylight
funny even to eavesdroppers
sitting at the next table
comparing our kiss-filled nights
with theirs.
of course it is not fair
that you have turned the meaning
of adharam madhuram
so unholy now.
i am not crazy but i can hear,
the dj at totos is playing vitthala vitthala
while you figure out
complicated math
on the abacus on my hands.
i think i am ready to carve
your name on my heart
and mine on yours,
with the new ginsu,
that arrived by UPS just last night.
