Underneath my pillow
Or packed away
Never to be touched again...
Beneath the pages
Of this book,
I press some
Like an old lover's flower...
The smell of the city
Holds them too,
Clenched in its tight grasp...
Only to let go,
When I least expect....
Some whisper
In between
Fermented melodies...
And leave the taste
Of sweet old wine,
In the crevices of my mind...
Faces, tears, moon and rain...
Clouds and bridges,
Hours and places,
Bells and conch shells,
Roads and winter...
All of them,
Like little chits
In the bowl of a game of luck....
Talking to each other,
Rehearsing a long lost play...
In the treasure trove
Of memories....
