GloMag GloMagDecember2018 - Page 49

the dust smelt of rivers and shadows in involuntarily proportions far ahead, in different odors perhaps far off in the inherent blue and rampant tea gardens rolling down mrinalini is a palace and then she was never the palace she is me in one ancient night of laughter in a rite of destiny, in a puzzle of sacrament in the darkness of your hair, in moonless nights when crickets talked, creaked and enduring promises sustained white cotton dreams, shared only till daybreak the tea thick with milk with cinnamon and your smile the thatched tea shop caught your neck sunbeams poured on to blue veins trapped for many more years to come you stayed 49