POETRY| Choreography of chance

I worry that my fingers’ brazen lust

to dive into your hair may unhinge itself

and douse our friendship in a wet windy day, never frozen,

forget heat,

just a wet windy discomfort permeating

the calm sweet unlabelled pace of the now


I know not of a way to quell my curiosity

pertaining to the times I caught that look

or comprehended half the sentence

accompanying your friend’s chuckle, your generosity and patience,

my keen fascination and high pitched giggles.

Back and forth we play the game

again, again


It has to be the place-the time,

where you are and where I’m from because

this is not a story either mind has ever written in our clouds of expectation

or the path we planned to walk.

It’s a tangent of disassociation-

a cul de sac

on a road,

in a district

of a city

we’ll never go


However, strange as it may seem,

I want to drag it out like bubble gum,

an austen romance’s prolonged suspense,

the search for nemo,

leander and hero because

I am afraid both to retreat and advance,

shake things up or reign them back,


I am limited in my desire to partake

in the choreography of chance because

what we have is circumstantial therefore

at best it is a tale of luck, opportunity and risk

deriding hope to her face.


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