I’ll con­tinue to be lost in my in­ces­sant thoughts of you. In rain­bow dreams. In lively con­ver­sa­tions. In the loneli­est of win­ter af­ter­noons, when the sun is bright and the breeze cool, and the only flower that blooms is you, on your first floor bal­cony eat­ing tan­ger­ines.

In pas­tel coloured houses where tiny stat­ues of gods lay dis­carded, for­got­ten and hid­den be­hind tinted black glasses.

Nothing ever hap­pens here. Nothing. In this mo­not­o­nous af­ter­noon, even a pass­ing ve­hi­cle catches my at­ten­tion; and so does the tra­jec­tory of a red cricket ball, and the fat child play­ing with it.

Everything is foggy yet I search for flow­ers in bushes and kites merry and yel­low against the light blue sky; the veil be­hind which gods live, eter­nal, ephemeral gods who make the clouds white and the win­ters cold.

There was a boy once, and a girl. Both of them lived in the same white world of win­ter fog and empty af­ter­noons. Both dreamed of the sea­son of man­goes, and they were friends. One or­ange evening when they walked home to­gether, the boy: who is a boy af­ter all, said that he loves her in the ten­der­est of words; his heart beat­ing fast. The girl, the girl is speech­less. Happy too, but no. Of course she can’t let this hap­pen. It’s against the whole or­der of things.

Would you still be here if you could go any­where?

″… I have never been here.”