On Women, Bills, and Conversations

There are a few women.
To see them,
I travel twelve miles every day –
one way –
paying 250 for a cab
when I have 400 in my wallet.

One of them comes,
twice or thrice a week,
in short, black hair,
up to her neck;
talks with zeal
keeps things alive,
doesn’t reveal much of her body,
but excites the senses,
still.

The other comes in curls,
and sometimes in straight hair,
flings her cream-coloured bag
on the wooden bench out of polish,
and sits.
She, then, takes her hair
away from her face
with a subtle movement
of her fingers – often went unnoticed.

She melts me like garlic butter
on a hot pan.

Though,
after reaching home,
I do not rush to the bathroom
in memories of these women,
I write poems for them.

It gets dark,
and I get hungry,
only to realise
that I have a few jingling coins
in my wallet.

And then,
I borrow money from my clients –
upfront,
and they like me enough
to pay my bills –
ever increasing
as I travel these twelve miles –
six times a week
to see these two women.

And yet,
I am too shy
to talk to them.

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