Warmth

by Makola

They speak of growth as though it is painless.

Natural yes.

Easy never.

They speak of other things too. Things which can latch themselves around the very air you breathe, acting as the cocoon. But never the butterfly.

The city no longer roars as it did. You try to lean in, try to fathom its heartbeats but they are nothing more than gentle thuds, sounding as though they are miles away when really they aren’t. They can’t be.You’re still here. The distance was never covered but mostly because there wasn’t much cloth left.

The cloth was warm. Like the dupattas  you speak so often of now. Like the handholds you miss so frequently these days, weeks, months. Like the hugs in which you now wish you hadn’t been the first to let go.

makola

city of blinding lights

 

 

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