If I tell you
You should stop by on your
casual Sunday stroll on
the third lane to the south of the town
Take a right, a left and find an odd old house
Climb your way to the room on the fourth floor
On half-dead creaky wooden stairs
Because
I have wondered often how
it would smell the day you visit
Of the usual chamomile oil in an earthen pot, or
my oh-you're-finally-here smile that
cracks out of these plastered walls
Would you then come visit?
Maybe touch the aloneness painted
all over my shelves even though
pink blushes bright
If you'd sit with me on the chair I placed
Just for you- right angles to the light, and watch me type another long letter
at the dingy typewriter?
If you would let the windows gush open
and tell me fears don't fly in unless
I summon them in my sleep?

The unmade bed is just the folds of my body
stretching out so you could sit under
the white night light and share with me
a cup of tea
I'll tell you then what the streets of the other town
shared with me, show you a postcard maybe,
And whisper the secrets of the
Antique shop behind the Kashmiri market
because one can never pocket just enough
tales

You can sip all of those stories
I will chat into your ears and when
You're done, and when you get up to leave,
my parting words for you will be
that I'm strong. And
when I tell you I'm strong, I mean
I'm vulnerable enough to show you me
And you should know
I would pluck my eyes out for you to see
what lies behind, you will see I have
held you longer in my sleep
Wake up into my dream silently
slipping away from this pink-walled
room I snuggle closer
To the Sunday you will stop by