Dear Kolkata

From shacks selling rainbows and false ceilings.

Kolkata,
Amidst the homologous monotone of fading faces is the kind of solitude that keeps disappearing with every piece of dilapidation that ruined you and ruined me. I would not blame the fog or the white blanket of invisible snow over the stars on the river gleaming like droplets of light dripping from the wet sun. I would not call it atrocity, just atrophied obnoxious obscurity of the orthodox cynicism of fireflies camouflaged as lanterns,that sail around the moon looming over your nude brutality ,now secured within your sequined handloom protecting your bare chest.

Darling, I have spent nights waiting for the gold of the sky to melt into precarious orange and then into the flaming red that you wear on your lips. I have crossed miles and scampered through moist,damp mysterious meadows of dawn and dusk merging together to touch every freckle on your burnt skin.

I have loved each drop of sweat on your bosom,like dewdrops kissing the leaves of the cotton tree just beyond your window niche. I let you,willingly,to destroy every ounce of myself that I had within me and to be dissolved into you and the taste of your tongue crushing against mine.

Have mercy and ruin me more.

The catastrophe of the various species of silence making love haunts our room and the empty railway station waiting for the last train. Tell me stories while you caress my face with your fingertips that char my inconsequential authenticity.

Let the sunshine fall on your face and your soft skin tone;let yourself on me and breathe again against my neck. Press your cheek on mine and pour down on me like the Monsoon.

Be my letter and the weapon to wound it and I shall bleed ink on your behalf.

We could lie amidst pink flower petals on Autumn mornings and count droplets of misery China Rose petals on frozen afternoons.

~Destitute

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