Mirage.

metaphysical distance.

I love how poetry can make us feel the absence of metaphysical existence of beauty.
I have been living in an upside turned sky for a while, with my heads in the hills and my feet dipped in clouds. And, when I showed my friend a poem I had written about mountain and the moss that moist my eyes, she told me that she imagined an author in a home in the hills. It surrounded her with the smell of pine cones and wood ash lingering like the life they've left behind.
And, I told her, perhaps the same author liked her coffee mixed with the morning mist, and her lover's morning breath.

She shared her own poem, that talked about colours, lavender, to be exact. And, and how similar the remnants of a festival which is only ashes of fireworks and bygone memories, is with loving oneself with the heart that accommodates the reluctant kindness of a recently turned stranger.
And, I told her that her poem, it's so sad. So beautiful. It reminded of the lavender shrub here. And the lavender vine that creeps upon the old unoccupied Raj Bhavan here. It's beautiful, but it's lonely. And. I think as much as it loves clouds for company, it still waits for human love.

And we both smiled at the plastic screen that traps our poetry, and the distance between us. Her smile reaches me from her southern town, and broadens my own frosty hill stationed smile.