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Step by step,
In India’s summers.
Afraid to sleep in the heat,
Because I just might not wake up.

Wake up to a solitary fantasy;
One I built with an einstein imagination.
A cancer to the mind;
A weight that sags the heart.

Men don’t say “heart”!
It’s a feminine diction.
Unfortunately, it’s only the heart
That can write these dark poems.

If you stay in a heart long enough,
You forget there is a way out.
The heart itself may pump you out,
But its suction takes you back.

One step at a time,
Will get us through Indian summers.
Sleeping on the roof helps.
I get to see the Three Kings.

Yet these stars are the enemy;
There never align.
Fate has its favorites;
The others get to write poems.

Words poison the heart.
There, “heart”, again!
The mind has little say,
Because the Heart writes the poems.

Oxygenated blood flows out,
An incentive to move on.
I jump in and lick my wounds,
But her blood takes me back.

Back into her heart.

“You have said ‘heart’ again,”
Says the mind.
“Take off that chinno and the tee;
You’ll need this skirt and a blouse.”

Let me go up to the roof,
And sleep.
I hope the Indian summer kills me;
I don’t want to wake up tomorrow.

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