If my skin was not so dry
Your touch would possibly never flake away
Dandruff-like, settling on the floor with dust
Stepped on like memories that promised once to matter.
I could have made you into a small pillow
Carried under my arm and protected with all my might
We would sleep against a mango tree
My fingers curling around your hair
Or the other way round
In the sweetness of a hot Delhi afternoon
I would have nibbled into your palm
To remember you like a treat.
If you asked, I would make a sculpture out of your arm
That reaches around my shoulder
Your narrow back and the ebb and flow
Of tidal hair gurgling in a voice that only suits youth
I would remember you in the shape of a fairy.
If you needed to know, I would spell out
The beauty of your poetry that slips out of your dark vignette
How I hate your brilliance, blinded by your shadow
How I nurture your follies and relish in your love.
I could also write, if you insisted, on the sunlight of your dreams
Of visions as clear as a freshwater lake
On your blotless reason and selfless stretch of a heart.
If you wondered about yourself I would teach you, my friend,
You are so unmistakably yourself
That I am pushed towards some envy
And a whole lot of pride.

But I am a small woman, with a smaller heart
Rough patches of fabric on taut, hollow bones
A blowed up box of pleasantries and
Nothing inside.
I would like to remember you
Like the purr of a cat against my hesitant chest
So that when the world ends in a nondescript accident
Or in a celebrated glory
Or whatever 
I remember the pleasure of a welcome guest.