268 Kilometers

I have seen you
evolve in the corners
of my mind,
held you in my arms
as you slowly grew and then grew again.

I have poured myself
a glass
every time
a spec of your detail changed.

I have moulded and shifted
in my bed,
crouched in my seat,
held my neck closer to the speaker
of my phone
every time
a feather turned over.

I have seen you
move from
a brooding male,
thinking himself irresistible
to the opposite sex,
to a child shivering in
his mother’s warm embrace
at 4 in the morning,
to a father who holds my hand
until I fall asleep.

And every damn time,
I pour myself a drink,
thinking, perhaps,
your dreamy phases
are a thread of my drunken reality,
perhaps, my dreaming reality,
or perhaps, nothing at all.
Nothing more than
soot, dust, cement, half-dead trees,
sunrise and sunsets,
the colour orange and green,
and everything in between
268 kilometres.

-Taru Gupta

For once, I did not write poetry out of my own misery. My muse keeps shocking me with self-discovery. First, I write him a poem on jealousy and now I wrote him a semi-sad, appreciation poem. I won’t call it a love poem, but perhaps an admiration piece? Who knows? This one for the person who is separated by 268 km, but united by everything else.

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