People stop to look at flowers.
They take pictures of the full moon.
There’s solace in witnessing these things,
even as
you will pick flowers for them no more,
and for whatever reason,
you will not exchange such pictures.
It’s funny how people using earbuds
sometimes look like they are talking to themselves.
And for a moment, you take solace in the fact,
that you might not be the only one going insane.
But then you remember,
they will never again be the phone call you wait for.
Or the face seeking yours in a crowded station.
Maybe now, you count your days in escitalopram tablets.
And struggle to recall
the last time you did not dress up
in the bubble wrap of sarcasm.
Or
the last time that you did not cite
your freedom to move,
your duty to move,
necessity even.
Home?
Home was the time you managed to stay,
afforded to stop,
were not compelled to flee.
Some hands were home.
Home was everything you did not bring along
but wanted to the most.
Home are the people ruining your pictures by not being in them.
Vyoma 