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?