Of Umbrella and Mogras

Part 1

I know a boy down the street,
with a grey umbrella pocketing handful of scented mogras
wretchedly in search of ‘101 WAYS TO FALL IN LOVE WITH A GIRL’
between the cracked wooden bookshelves of an old library
So when the other midnight,
I saw him with a bottle of wine
trudging down the concrete highway of social norms
all drenched up, falling down just like the nascent rain
scribbling on the rusty gates to hate him
“H-A-T-E”
“H-A-T-E”
The only time the literature topper misspelt love,
and one fine day, I saw him with an umbrella
all painted in the hues of bright sunflowers
He spelt the four lettered word correct,
“L-O-V-E”
when he offered him his favourite mograhs over roses
when he shared his cornetto with him,
when he pulled the last block of jenga to let him win,
when they walked o'er the oxymoron of life
It is neither Cis nor Trans,
to live behind the narrow lanes of social norms
Neither is it of fantasizing sensual red roses nor its thorns
Love, darling love!
Love is supposed to be the blooming graffiti on the walls
of every city that is too dark to behold its essence.
And when they were barely an inch apart,
I liked the way how with his warm hug,
He turned into liquid grace around his arm necklace
taking the shape of him under the umbrella,
Now
I know a boy down the street,
with a bright umbrella pocketing scented mogras
smiling I blurred my lenses with the dancing sunflower