“Oh please, dig into the flesh of my legs
with your hungry eyes, until they slap stiffly on the ground”
I cried silently to the group of men standing in the parking lot.
Strangely painted faces huddled at the entrance of the restaurant.
Like thick clusters of homeless people. Some more well dressed fools drove in.
The moonlight is still creeping onto the dead cars.
Manly hands hold thin waists tightly. Stares of admiration are exchanged.
The night is getting drunk shamelessly somewhere.
Dimly lit corners are busy collecting stories.
The stories men tell women. Women tell men. Some are understood.
Some are not understood. Nevertheless, heads nod in silent agreement.
Like unstrung puppets opening up their silly acts. A few collided with each other.
I walked down the dark stretch behind. My heels kissed the gravel path, rather noisily.
I hissed at them – what is the possibility that the foreplay of words behind
the bright windows could be true? Or false as a whole.
They never existed before. They were born in the clamourous night.
How depressingly clumsy she looked while hugging him?
How annoyingly disturbing his hand looked moving across her back?
How hurriedly they put a mask on?
One more night of agitated heart beats.
To sleep still when the night slumbers in the beds, later.
The false promises of the night are brawling near the garbage bag.
The crickets started their dress rehearsal. Suddenly, I am all alone.
To realise, how far I have gone away from the world I live in?
I trembled with some unknown pain. Still young skin waited for the tears to roll down.
How old and resentful woman have I become?