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
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.