Manish Pathania | Author

Writer | Traveler | Artist

Our nights


Our nights
under the starry skies,
drunk in love,
and I, 
in alcohol.

When we used to wander
in my rickety car,
after a bad day in life,
listening to Dylan
talk about love,
life, and freedom

You would often find a quiet spot,
mostly in front of a cigarette shop,
and we would park the car,
kill the engine,
roll down the windows,
and listen to the breeze harmonize
with the harmonica.

I never quite understood why
you would suddenly become so quiet,
and wave your fingers in the air,
in the ebb and flow of the melody,
and try to communicate something,
which I was too naive to understand.

I would just look at you,
glistening under a reticent yellow light
escaping somewhere from the darkness
to fall on your fair skin
while you release the white clouds,
from the captivity of your puckered lips,

and wonder
how easily you could conceal,
your inherent grace,
under the messy hair,
profane language
and bad hangovers.

And then you would catch me,
staring at you in awe,
and I would get intimidated,
by the unadulterated love
oozing out of your expectant eyes.

Our nights,
under the skies,
long gone,
intoxicated in love,
and I,
in regret.

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