Once upon a time, again..

1978, London

His suit could put the mayor to shame,

The windsor knot’s perfect symmetry

Is adjusted again, all the same.

She looks lovely, after all,

In her flowing lavender dress.

The handshake is firm… Too firm?

His anxiety has a tough grip.

Soul aquiver with nerves,

Heart on the edge of a cliff,

He reaches across the table –

Rosewood born in India –

To hold her hand, like in the fables.

Painted in the soft glow

Of a candle fleet,

Her skin is pregnant with perfume

Of rain on cobbled grey streets.

The beloved is more assured –

Allowing his winter fingers

To linger

Where men have perished to reach.

She knows he’s the one

When they first swing,

Untrained feet, unwavering eyes,

To Clapton’s strings;

His whispers confide

To her waiting curls –

She looks wonderful tonight.

2015, New Delhi

Struck by a bullet

At the strike of the millennium,

Thrust into a new world,

He’s, yet again, a boy of 15.

He sits across blushing pink cheeks,

Oblivious of the hue of her eyes,

The secrets under her skin,

And a song about fireflies.

Adept fingers move swiftly,

Fidgety feet tap around her toes

In anxiety still.

’What’s with the network here?’

He mumbles to empty spaces

Lit by a ghostly glow

Of his gadget sweetheart.

The paramour is more impatient still,

Pout. Click. Share.

Wait. . .

Loading. . .

‘Feeling wonderful on a date’ –

Her profile is about to say.

He will like it, of course.

They are no more a hushed secret,

Stolen glances, or a dance slow.

Magic is a notion scoffed at;

Love’s a myth on show.

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