Rush

There is something between each mote of dust,
suspended in the light of the bulb that I switch
on: elementally flawed, fundamentally twisted,
fanatically fucked, and so,
I walked out to no serenade of songbirds,
and walked to the old coffee shop, later a café,
and now an outdoor restaurant, and saw
her, smoking that slender cigarette, exhaling
a slight stream with elegance, the antithesis of
my incessant puffing, she glanced at me once,
the wanderlust in her eyes spelling more than
the book I was reading, but words on a page
reverse decisions, and bring a hundred
recollections, the nonchalant me
drawn like the south attracted to the
north pole of a magnet, the grit repelled
by a potential passion on Red Bull romance,
the cobweb of musing considering a
potential rejection, but words
lie within flimsy paperbacks these days,
and uncertainty is sometimes hope,
and hope often crippling uncertainty, and so I let
the metaphors stay suspended in the darkness
without the glow of a bookmark, and walked
up to her.

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2017)

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