Pauses
Vasanthi Swetha
Some afternoons are quiet. The stillness of the jasmine on my co-passenger’s hair smells of South Indian weddings I remember going to as a child. There is a serenity in this silence; When half this world is fast asleep, the other half is awake in pockets of the earth, like loose change trying to find a corner to melt in. Sometimes, I think I am part of that pocket, counting from 1 to 100, my lips meandering through the whispers of my mind, treading into a void that sucks my voice in like the tunnel of a vacuum cleaner, leaving no dust behind in which to doodle my name before I fall asleep. Some afternoons are quiet The sun burns patiently in the company of other invisible stars, As sweat drops roll down my neck 32
Yours Truly
