Home : The breeze was biting cold. – Trisrota Datta – Medium

The breeze was biting cold. 
A January evening. 
With no shooting stars in sight, 
I wished upon the moon. 
I wished upon the red eclipse. 
I wished, 
That the moon bleeds once more time, 
While I bled hope.

Intoxicated by cheap rum in a run down pub, Somewhere in Park Street, 
And the smell of your first cigarette,
From your carefully knitted cardigan. 
I fumbled for the taste of home,
Because it had been six months, 
Since you felt like one. 
Just six months but you tasted different. 
Just six seconds, 
And my tongue dug up the relics, 
Just to feel my distorted faith, 
Crumble into place.

Six months later. 
Upon the hot wetness,
Of a July bed.
The moon bled again. 
History has a knack for repeating itself.

There we were in a Vintage Chinese Pub. 
Somewhere in Park Street. 
Again. 
Drunk on overpriced cheap rum, 
Again. 
Probably your thousandth cigarette.
But the kiss still has the same rhythm.

And I wish I could bottle it all. 
The unchanged scent.
The unforgettable taste. 
The unhinged passion. 
I wish kisses could seal,
Like they say they do.

The moon did bleed again,
But they called it evil. 
They think somewhere under the red moon,
Mischief brews and bubbles. 
But all that red reminded me,
Of your face draped in warm rays,
Of afternoon sunshine,
Filtering through musty curtains,
In some dingy inn.

From eclipse to eclipse. 
Through red lips that moan and mumble,
To a warm blush within. 
With wild flutters in-between my ribs,
Turning into a steady beat. 
And frantic escapades,
Seeming like soft Sunday brunches.

In this damned city. 
With all the twists and turns,
In the tale of time.
With all the things,
Lost and found.

In this damned city. 
Childish joy turned,
To a sense of belonging.

From eclipse to eclipse.

– I found my infinity.

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