I embellish my arms with bangles

As thick as two strands of hair.

Their raucous cackles

Suffuse the tepid air.

Air that's fragrant with spices

I add to my copper pots. 

Air whose redolence

Reminds me of what I've lost.

The dough that I mould

Sans a scintilla of strain,

Boasts imprints of my knuckles manifold, 

Knuckles on which those kisses still linger, ...

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I died yesterday

With a pen in one hand and a diary in the other. 

The latter's pages were inlaid 

With prints of my curry stained fingers, 

And splotches of tea, 

And smudges of ink, 

And spools of memories,

And streams of ridiculous cravings. 

I fashioned the contents with the loose threads 

I'd been stockpiling since forever. 

Vibrant, prismatic, but half-completed...

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