I leaned on the granite rock under the checkered shadow of the neem tree. The smell of lantana was strong and the book in my hand, unending. I was distracted by a fluttering noise, of paper against the wind. I looked up and saw a yellow kite, with big pink eyes, staring down at me. It was tangled in the mistletoe and struggled to break free with every little wind. A tailorbird looked at it with its head tilted. Chirping loudly, mocking it as it sought the sticky berries. Ignorant of how high the kite flew, or how it yearns to be among the hawks. It will struggle to break free, to fly again and to fight the wind. The sun will fade its vibrant colors. The twigs will shred it. And one day, it will untangle and fall to the ground. The termites will build its sepulcher. To dust will turn its dreams. Never will it fly again. No one will remember it. Next season, there will be another kite, yellow, with big pink eyes.
I sleep like a fetus under the covers. Curled like a fern frond, hiding away from the light and the fear. I uncurl in the warmth of your embrace and sleep in the stillness of a dreamless night. I mesmerize you with the rhythm of my breaths and the murmur of my beating heart. Morning brought the lambent light, blinding me and breaking the trance. I feel your absence next to me, like phantom wings of a fallen angel. I curl again, kiss my knees. Brood upon a distant memory where darkness lulled me in waters deep. The lungs remember how to breathe and the heart remembers how to forget.