Warm sweatshirts
In the cold monsoon rains,
Your fork, my chopsticks in
An empty bowl of Maggi between us-
you’d left the last bite for me
While I throw the remote
to you,
as always.
There are no terms spoke,
We just do these things.
‘What to watch?’
We both shrug,
Turn off the tv,
Stretching our legs across
As we take either ends of the couch
You draw your arms
Behind you your head,
A lazy smile on your lips,
What is that—
Contentment?
I have a languid expression too,
A smooth forehead and
My face will seem
to you like that,
An air of confidence.
But will it always be the same?
Will you be the same?
Promise, do you?
Though you already did.
Fears,
Fears, only on the inside
Hush, let them not be shown
But still,
My untrusting heart
Wants to know.
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