IT IS NOT SO…

Some Sunday
When I'm young again
I'll write you to find out how you have been-
Your frenzied lips and dutiful skin
Your pleated skirts- moods to tease the volcano
When we are young again
I'll kiss your cheek and say that I have learnt something…
Some Sunday
It would be the paradise humming within
Like bits of cloud, the raindrops-
On blatant portals of amorous thoughts
Finally coming in thick squints
The suicidal moon- you test a darker complexion
And breasts heavy with gravity
Out of nowhere a sudden scar
Faint gallops of rhetorical moist lips
Rocking on lounge chairs
Watching flesh burning hot
You’re too predictable
Turning in through
Dishonest doors, indifferent windows
And shadows in the pillows
Sunday morning stripping the Barbie
Watching beautiful hard lines of flesh
Voids, misplaced dominoes
Strangers at every corner with lipstick on
And the radiance of careless words
Buying, eyeing obvious vanities
Malfunctions in touch- grenades
You tried to tell me how beautiful it was
To be like live torn stockings cheating up cold legs
Obvious vagabonds- fingers sans eyes cruising
Some Sunday when I'm young again
I'll write you to find out how you have been-
It is not so, the future
Is unseen, of Sundays within…