a meadow underneath the metro station

the platform

Now, years later, I can tell what it was

I can tell I was too generous with my idealisation. 

Somewhere in between the flashes of the speeding windows of the train,

I reminisce about the back of your head turning to search me.

(in another life, in an overcast summer in 2019, your grin tastes sticky on my lips)

When the doors snap open, I’ll be skipping over the space that could kill me on the tracks of the platform,

(in another life, i’m skipping over a puddle in front of your house after school, whilst a car speeds by with your neighbours looking over disdainfully)

I’m walking out, forcing, imposing myself on a new city up north, 

Thudding through the station and onto the escalators, shaking a little.

(my breath comes out in quivers against the hollow of your neck but you push me off to haul me up the staircase) 

Gripping the railing as I move down to the next platform,

(down, down, down, your hands go but it disappoints when they interlace with my fingers instead)

And I squint at the neon-signs to look for an exit straight ahead and I almost run over - I have that peculiar habit, my mom once observed and so did you, of pacing hurriedly. 

(no holds barred, we touch)

And I walk off, towards the direction of the rectangular shape of light, of the scorching sun, I walk straight into punishment, 

(in this dim lit room, i don’t stop you. you quicken, you hurry, you don't even pause to see me tear up)

And out into the warm daylight screwing my eyes shut, I get alarmed by the sound of the beeping horns.

(a cold embrace, I didn’t see a thing, I could only hear the rain)

                                                                      
     Back home in the deccan, since we fell apart, monsoons got shorter.

     But I still keep my umbrellas hung by the door if you ever come back.