There were Indian poems on the wind.
They were the soft caress of words loved, the sweet tinge of literature adored and it singed with the grace of spoken lullabies on the breeze, liquid art waxing poetic.
There were Indian poems on the wind.
It was the same poem every time, the same combination of words unknown to most and lilts unheard that drifted through my window and laid me to sleep. I shifted on my bed, the room hazy and drowning in shadows that cowered from the soft glow of a light that was not my own, a beacon in the darkness that was distinctly moonless, starless. Lifeless.
He always said the poem when he couldn't sleep.
I don't even think he realized when the words took shape. It was his anthem, his reassurance. A gentle reminder of places seen and homes abandoned and in my mind that could only conjour scenes of small towns, of fireworks and Americana, I saw the lights of a billion, the colored clouds of Holi, the glimmer of Saris.
I saw a boy of the most velvet of brown skin whose smiles was the sun and eyes were the darks of the moon, whose heart was mourning a place of Gods and lost treasures.
I closed my eyes against the sorrow in the air.
There were Indian poems on the wind.
It actuality, it wasn't a poem but a song that seemed to translate itself into a poem on his lips. Its sentences were broken, its meaning shifted on a whim that had turned into a habit over the years. This song, this poem of a song, was my lullaby as much as it was his own.
"Hum tere bin ab reh nahin sakte, tere bina kyaa vajood meraa."
The words rang heavy in the chilled October air, fanning embers of blistering feelings beneath pale skin and eyes fluttered wide awake behind closed lids in the dead of night.
I can't live without you now .
What's my existence without you.
There was a boy throwing Indian poems , that weren't really poems, in to wind, his smile like emeralds and his skin like bronze, and I was in love with him.