STARS ARE CONNECTED

In the era of strings of chat

I love my typewriter.

The clicking sounds harmonizing with

The crickets, piercing the night's silence.

That's where I find my solace.

Until a month ago,

When she came to share my silence.

All I could see was her Silhouette.

Leaning against the oak frame

On the terrace next door.

The new moon night.

She spoke hushedly, like a symphony

"I love typewriters too."

Thence, we talked of stories.

Of parchments, of petrichor, Of cherry blossoms, of nostalgia.

But never saw each other.

Today, it is full moon.

The earth soaks in the luscious silvery.

She asks, " What is a constellation?"

I smile "May be the stars romance and we call it a constellation.

Don't you think they should see,

That possibly a man and a woman,

Unseen, could love each other?"

The silhouette shrinks.

The pause seems a lifetime,

Before the scarf drops.

An angry burnt patch eclipsed with moon bathed skin,

And agonized hazel eyes meet me.

I loosen the collar of my shirt.

She moans, I smile.

Taking her supple hands, I whisper,

"Sharing pains, we're a constellation

Stardust that makes you is

The stardust that makes me."

- Soumya