i don't know what to do with my hands even
when they're holding yours. they're like children
travelling alone without a ticket or a clue. maybe
that's how our bodies are made to make sense.
on farewell, your sari is as loose as it was on freshers.
i tuck it in, as i had tucked it in, like a flute in a mouth.
but this is a poem and this poem is our bed. the grammar
of your sorry can be loose here and give me head instead
of mind. my favorite parts of your body are the moments
before you come. like the insides of a bell. in the morning,
before you wake up, i roll four dots of odomos on you and
tuck you into a buzzless sleep charged with dreams. at night,
we go to the rooftop restaurant, from where the red dots
of taillights in the traffic take the shape of poetry's kind lies.
you get me a croissant and all i can taste is its pronunciation.
i'm either a hinge, or a pivot, or a tentative title. put me down,
when you have to, when you can, when you want, in a hive.
~ ajay
2/10/2024
