Drift

In the garden of my heart, I'm still learning to tell the thorns from the roses.

Sigh

I'm hanging outside the 11.40 pm local and the rain is lashing across my face with a fury so vicious that I'm blinded by the cascade.

I struggle to open my eyes, fighting against the gale, just enough to see tiny droplets clinging onto my eyelashes, as the city passes by in a blur; like a flurry of fireflies in a black forest.



Pure, vintage Bombay.