She was standing there, smoking, just beneath the second Japanese lantern that I had bought her last year. The mild, diffused light had painted her face a sort of reddish yellow – it looked like the sides of an orange, ready to be peeled.
For her, on the day of Saptami (seventh day in the fortnight)
Her lips are like the pieces of an orange.
She puffs shapes into the air, bit by bit; emotions
dry out, 27-th floor into the abyss.
Undulating hair, Japanese lanterns painting our sorrow in turmeric yellow.
Her moist eyes.
I try to look into them – blackish blood peeking through my nose.
“You didn’t find love, yet again” she says, clairvoyant, morose.
“Give me your cigarette” I blurb.
Thousands of emotions blend in the air ~ good love, bad love, cynical love, narcissistic love.
Where’s our love?
Our love’s peeking, by Eliot Park, under the umbrella and prying eyes.
Laughing, on the roads beside New Empire.
Kissing, on Maidan, and the Oxford Book Store.
Our love’s a’standing.
Standing, between us, in the Vermillion Yellow balcony.