They see Dylan. He says
Bob, the other says Thomas.
From white buttons in
strangers’ ears, I hear the
strains of someone offering
shelter to him1. My pink
skirt, gracing the pavement.
The two men kiss and I
am reminded that perhaps
Love isn’t as romantic as it
is practical. What of the closing
of shared bathroom doors?
I look down to see patterns.
The flowers within the pink, and
the white within the stone.
Waiting by the Liverpool Station
today, I actually breathed.
Well done again. Wunnerful.
Lovely poem, Neha, and a lovely picture.
“From white buttons in
strangers’ ears, I hear the
strains of someone offering
shelter to him”
Very nice :)
Lalita: Oh! :)
gauravonomics and sleepy: Thanks!