There’s a certain kind of peace
in the three-quarters spoonful of sugar
that you put in your tea every Thursday,
the daily 7 o’clock train that rumbles onto Platform 3,
the 17 minutes it takes to reach the university’s gates,
the girl with the yellow headphones who sits in front of me.
There’s a certain kind of reassurance
about the cracked tile in the middle of your kitchen,
the watch you’ve been wearing for the past nine years,
the hair on the back of my head that refuses to stay flat,
and the old man next door who refuses to die.
There’s a certain kind of stillness
about immovable tombstones,
oceans that refuse to dry,
deserts that burn forever
and your left dimple peeking out
when you want to be sarcastic.
And yet, I also find serenity
in a chaotic Picasso,
a rabid storm during a hot May,
Good Ol’ Sailor Vodka that makes me choke,
your left dimple on your acne’d cheek,
the dandelions, beautifully pressed (and dead) in our love letters.
(We were both allergic).
– Prashanti Chunduri