Love, language and ever-silver

Every moment, then on
would always have a taalam,

In beat, the summer fan
threatened to whisk away
his half page love letter.

My love is pure (no, not
pure. I lust for you). It is
like music. (The cacaphony
in my being. No.)

I cannot translate its rhythm
from the language in
which I love you. In Tamizh.

Yes, my love for you,
is like that very language, in
which I first stole my
innocence. In Tamizh.

My first sigh was in my
mother tongue. (Indelible.
Tattooed upon my lips.)
This love – not the first, or
even the sixth.

Idelible. Tattooed.
In beat, I make this discovery,
that love, shines (not like a
star. At all.) like an ever-silver
utensil. It shines and it holds.

Then, I tell you that
monsoon must hover around
your hair. Waiting to fall.
In taalam.