In Dharmsala
I wake in a homestay on a hillside in the foothills of the Himalayas to the sound of the rain pattering out a rhythm on the rusty tin roof above, my eyes focus on the little window of the room, drops of water collect into rivulets and flow down the panes, beyond shrouded in half mist a mountain of forest, blobs of green focus and blur with the raindrops.
Alongside me lies a she, an East to my West, the blanket has fallen from her shoulders, as I cover her I trace a line with my fingertips from her neck to the base of her spine. I hear only the rain and her breathing, sleep-deep. We danced the old dance she & me.
With the coming sunset East will go East & West West & far from here, beyond trains & planes & dusty roads perhaps another she & another me will meet & dance the oldest dance.
Akogare – yearning
