Coffee turns bitter with spoons of chicory,
tastes rancid; the drink leaves traces in the cup –
muddy streams where I comb for contours of memory:

a protruding bone on the neck, mole under the nose,
lines around lips like paranthesis. Memories bear scars
like river beds where crisscross channels of desire.

The copper glint on skin exposed to sun, hair behind ears
licked by sweat are seen on things wholly unrelated –
born from a mind that has lost count of time,

when present slides into past. I hear a voice in the mall,
I search in the crowded elevator, in the billing counter,
in someone who slants her head in a particular manner.

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