Between the hops!

One tall tower to the next,

one country touch, a hop to the next,

region to region,

landscapes alike,

he gazed like an eagle,

at what still remained at bay,

much like me,

a guarding shore, I say,

which soaked in a bit of what lay in between his hops

For I vowed,

he'd climb the stairs,

and I'd count them,

he'd sing to his tune,

and I'd record them

In the milieu,

that is today,

and was then,

with the falling leaves and flowing winds,

some compressed feelings,
a burgeoning heart,

mine, not his,

for he only saw a silhouette,

and one tall tower

I took to the silhouette too,

for that won't change,

much, I wish,

but my heart still wrinkles,

still crinkles,

at the very thought,

of,
what if,

my world is that of an adverse scenario

But he'd move on,

and so would I,

to see what lies beyond the tallest tower,

may be me?,
the stretched heart's calling,
not floating to the surface,

but just beneath,

waiting,

awaiting

So when he'll be atop the tallest tower,

I'll take him back,

I'll have him back,

through a journey,

to a journey,

to a land,

where,

he was,

I was,

and wasn't there,

a,

hop step trance.

That monsoon, those rains!

This post has been published by me as a part of Blog-a-Ton 55; the fifty-fifth edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. In association with ​Rashmi Kumar, the author of Hooked, Lined and Single and Jyoti Arora, the author of Lemon Girl.

Because one day, this dancing would stop,
or maybe the instinct will die, you had said,
and you couldn't be more right than that night,
when the terrace became a witness,
to the world of many firsts we were to enter.

Of witnesses,
there was that tree too,
under the shade of which,
I gave you letters,
hand written and kiss sealed.

What about that shop with downed shutter,
two streets away,
where we met as lovers, reunited and love, rejuvenated,
and sipped tea in the enraging monsoons under the cover of howling clouds,
Oh, who'd forget the drops falling in our tea cups,
and I, falling in a bit of you, wishing you'd fall in a bit of me too.

And running for cover in that downpour,
was the maverick painter,
his canvas falling apart as he runs,
and I run too,
I chase,
for the fear of him not returning ever.

He has 'us' painted,
though only in half,
before the rain came down,
and that half is you,
and I'll realize,
only years later,
how the unfinished painting was indicative of a future so true.

And that day has come, I reminisce,
when the rain would happen but dance won't,
when you would happen and us won't,
and I wish you had said something else,
if that night had to be the one God heard your wish bells.

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