DÉJÀ VU

Jinju S.

 

I trace on your lips

the contours

of long-forgotten words.

The kalbaisakhi rolls in

on familiar geographies

of love and longing:

We stand watching—should we

step out or step away?

 

So much of love

is muscle memory;

quivering on the taut

bowstrings of our hearts,

shooting arrows of desire

across the miles.

 

Spidersilk touches,

jaggery-soaked aches,

electric glances ricocheting

off deep dark caves

as we stumble through,

hand-in-hand:

Is there a better

cartographer than love?

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