The Begging Rain

Afterwards
when I am not with you
and you are alone enough
to count the nails in your heart,
tough
and studded like a treasure-house door,
when you arrange your silences
in the vase of an hour,
balancing the bouquet with memories
of hands held,
a spike of laughter
and the colour of my eyes,

when you sit within the swell
of your heartbeat
and the purple tide of daydream
laps at the shore of all your selves,
and your skin sings, perfume-pierced,

Afterwards,
surrender to this thought of me:
as the mimosas of Maharashtra in May
long for monsoon
I long for you;
as the crimson cactus flowers of Thar
long for full moon
I long for you,
and in all my afterwards,
when I am not with you,
my heart turns toward the window of my life
and begs for rain.

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