Shoulder Length

We sway between the lines of text

asking for whirlpools in empty museums.

We take twists and turns 

always at a shoulder length. 

They are moaning about intimacy between auto-rides and drunken nights, 

echoing, ‘you wont understand’. 

They are meeting in and out metros, in the quite night gardens of Dadri, 

breaking into tango on rickety beds and floors, drunken smiles about their smiles. 

We spin in each others arms, a swift motion of silken shirts and beating hearts.

We are crashing into the shores of each other, 

sorry I can't invite you any further. 

There isn't a clause, this isn't a waltz. 

They swish across mirrors of failed attempts, 

breaking into another love while we rephrase love as “soon”.

They are peeling their tender skins all over again, 

it’s August and I can see you put putting on that sweater before we begin.

They talk about love like a cassette on loop, singing to the rhythm of absent blues.

Intimacy climbs up the window, sneaking and out of boundaries,

leaping and pirouetting, making itself home.

We are harbouring suitcases we cannot sink or fold into ships, 

we crave a dance in each others skin,

to have all these virtual rooms make a home of themselves.

But look at us, 

planting stones into luggages,

building fires out of bruises

unable to tire

and leap into each others arms.