My sister always told me
She disliked photographs
In black and white,
colour looks better,she said.
I arrive home at midnight,
From the flight,I watched the city
Scattered like purple pixie dust,
Mocking the stars,mirroring them.
Woke father up,he looked haggard
In his royal blue kurta,
creased with fatigue,worry lines.
He enveloped me,sealed a kiss on my forehead.
I’ve been trying to find home
In the off white drapes
And aquamarine couches in the old age home,
Pastel has always seemed inviting to me.
I search for home,cling to the idea of it
In the soft silver hair of Nanna,
In the moist banana loaf she cuts up carefully
For us, the mellow lamp lit beside her.
I speak in fragments,it’s all there’s left
Of home,some term this post modern,
I call it mere poetry,when we watch yellow
leaves fall for the summer,nature’s confetti.
Ice lollies,losing colour to our tongues,
turning blue.Colour looks better,she said,
I look for hope in colour schemes.
:')
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