Between us falls this plastic curtain with tiny floral prints and glistening droplets. I see your lips moving through the interleave.
There is work, overdue debts, deja vu there, on the riverbed. A thought came- no words, only an electrical presence. Nothing much has happened, then and now.
Will you repay my fifty rupees to the barber for the hair which once was, flowing in the river to the oceans, its sound muffled by the waves. I only appear in dreams on restless pillows. On the other side are flowers etched in plastic. They don’t perfume beyond the riverbed.
The Morning is Just a Dream 