waters that bleed – Bombay, 2002

In the bath today I began my letter to you and a few words later I lay calm. I felt coaxed by the warm caress to let a page quaver away, float over and sink under, into a waiting pool of fragrant liquid. I watched those letters, disjointed and anonymous. They were year-old refugees, blending and betraying the memory. They were soul incarnations, merely re-created to seem temporarily real.

Too paralysed by the sight for rescue, I watched the ironic beauty of letting go. Between those ink-lost words rose a scribble of swirling blue like a smokewater picture of the past born of you and me. One moment lay strung to the next by breath, letters bleeding into each other until they surrendered to transparency and all was calm once more.

Teardrop.
Ripple.
Stillness.

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