It’s the driest summer,
the toes do not talk to each other.
The sweat arches its voyage
through the moulded shoulders.
Every moment is a warm echo,
a syllable whispered out by a black tongue.
I drink the silence out of your lips
and my capillaries soak some fire.
Your hands are a paradox of existence,
that decipher my purpose slowly.
Take me to your darkest room,
turn me into a memory
that resurfaces every time
when you close your eyes.
Make me a rain,
that wipes a summer away.
A rain, in which you slowly cried.
This cessation from reality
is obvious but necessary too.
Like your love once was,
When I was your crimson sky.

– Shashank Bhardwaj