The train dragged memories of you like shadows
Their intense charcoal frames etched on passing trees
And fields that seem to be unprepared for such passion.
The vision of a green world outside my windows passes by in a blur.
What remains are paintings of your face
Made by the sun on the surface of my eyes.
Maybe that dark tunnel is your hair…its dense innards.
May be the streaks of lighting from lamps are fleeting smiles
May be the sounds of the engine are meant to drown my memories
Or distract me from remembering you.

When the train slows down, so does my breath
And then my heart counts each and every rail
Like its counting dreams
Intoxicated by the scents from the past.

I hope you will be waiting for me at the next station
As my expectant heart leaps out of the oppressive confines of the coach
You will be like memories that can breathe…
Memories that I can embrace and steal from your bosom.

 © Nikesh Murali

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