The chiffon night is a marquee.
It’s well past seven and I look out of my hotel window to see a hilly town below, dotted with glowworm lights.
Time is like a blob of butter in my soup bowl, melting, and I see myself walking along the trails of our scar.
The flow chart of our life events are pages of different books we wish to read and then wish away.
The silence of the hills makes me crawl into myself, here it is quiet, here you are mine.
A person is only a few digits away.
A strange oscillation ~ should I or should I not?
My heart hears sounds of fluttering wings while my phone screen decides that I need to return.
A heaviness hangs over, once again I make a choice to depart leaving behind the hills and us.
– Mallika Bhaumik