You are the tube light in the room
And I am the lost, abandoned insect humming around it.
You are the Vodka shots
And I am the empty glass waiting for you to fill me up – to the brim.
You are the chicken fried rice
And I am the last sixty rupees in my wallet.
You are the tired visitor
And I am the elevator ready to take you up to all the floors.
You are a bar of soap
And I am the skin you rub it against on.
You are a cigarette, nearing its end
And I am the parted lips holding you in between.
You are a sharpened, hand-crafted knife
And I am the heart it went through.
You are my words
And I am your poet.