SWAGATALAKSHMI ROYCHOWDHURY | CREATIVES
I remember your feet,
Grazing past mine
Under the table.
We were young
And we felt it fresh;
We took steps:
More together than apart,
Over city streets and softened cliffs,
Over dewy backyards to see the blue lizard,
Over sandy coasts past blue bottles.
At twilight,
My tired feet came back
To graze past yours,
Under the grey blanket,
In a world
Where July is but winter.
My feet were still
Young and ripple,
Without heels cracked,
Yet to break into
A new pair of shoes
That I got.
I was yet to go on bush-walks,
And traverse the woodlands,
And see the shrubs and ferns and eucalyptus.
I was yet to loosen the shoe strings,
And carelessly toss my shoes aside,
And dive into creeks,
And swim into lagoons,
And see lands of the Dharawal.
But you were in my shoes
More than I was in them:
To the extent of wearing them out,
To the extent of giving yourself blisters.
The shoes weren't mine
Anymore.
The shoes were torn,
The strings frayed,
And your feet had calluses.
It did not feel
Just as soothing
To place my feet
Next to yours.
For it was stuffy
Under the blanket,
And July was but gone.
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