Woman: Part II

Woman,
when you dress in that sari –
clad in its creases,
decorated in jewels
that hang from your ears
and the curve of your neck,
and fit your tender fingers,

I lean back on my cold steel chair
and suck out smoke from a cigarette,
crushing the filter between my lips.

Woman,
when you smile,
so gayly,
that the sky feels embarrassed –
gets cloudy,

I suck in the last few drops from my bottle
and smash it down
from the fourth floor.

Woman,
when you speak in the company of men
with neatly trimmed beard
and roaring motorcycles,

I walk across my dingy room,
hanging grey curtains on the windows –
no sunlight must get in.

Woman,
when you whisper to someone in the ears –
your red lips parting,
closing,

I put my hands in my pocket,
stare at the wall,
and hum a tune.

Woman,
when you hold my hands,
coldly,
and embrace me not,

I sit in a bar alone,
make a bill of 500 –
compromising with my food –
to write a good poem –
the only thing that can help me fall
asleep.

 

 

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