In two days, it will be July.
Blue, red, orange, yellow
the light, the heat, the color;
Summer holding us around the waist.
Grilled corns, peas frozen,
petals drying on the floor,
limes enshrine my threshold.
Summers, they say, evaporates your grief,
Summers, they say,
unbuckles the purpose from your ankles.
So you are free, like a dead-skin.
Untethered, unaccountable for any growth.
And you dance in the wind
in a moon-lit, sunset sky.
You don’t have to be anywhere tomorrow.
We face each other’s back
hands held, fisted and locked.
The time has come.
You greet your new world,
I continue in the blackness of mine.
The shimmering world attracts you more
The air between our hands start to show.
A pearl like substance appear in
our clammed-hands; our little fingers
still adhering to some terrifying rules.
The stubbornness in the bones of
two threads of flesh knitted together,
against time and reason, baffles me.
These hopeworm little fingers.
Not knowing the time has come to let go.
I’m through, you’re through.
Let our world lie on its back and die.
©️ kanikachugh