In your guy’s company
— Maybe the umbrella’s yours —
As you pass protected by the sun’s faint light
You squeeze his fist as you choose.
“Hi machan” — he beams a
Casual teeth-grin that is neither hi nor machan;
You look down, play the modest girl friend
Who tightens your thighs only over his,
As his fingers seek something sincere
In the prolonged moment of the prolonged kiss.
Or maybe not —
Maybe this is me just feeding into my construction of you
What my perverse imagination through its
Interaction with you permits; insists; tells me of —
Who never speak to me,
Who, in public, avoids me,
Pretends not to know me as your
Guy, outta courtesy, spends a precious minute on me,
You look aside, at some
Random object, and then
On Facebook tell me
That my face may look sincere
If my beard was cleared;
That I always wear black
And ask me who is my girl friend.
“Next time I will speak” and
Before you go offline
You submit a smiley and some ambiguous line.
Next time when I see you
You pretend to stare hard
At some fixed reality through me
Who, it would seem to appear, is made of glass.
I walk up to you and say “How do you do?”
Your words come and you smile:
“I’m alright all the while”.
In time your guy will leave you,
Or to him less fascinating you will be.
Not that I contest for you. But, that is only me.