WATER My favourite memory of us is of that day we was...

WATER

My favourite memory of us
is of that day we was...

WATER

My favourite memory of us

is of that day we washed each other's hair,

standing in the waterfall

of the shower, that moment sweet

succulent as fruit, complete as

a circle, the prowl of knowledge beneath

it bitter and delicate as the powder

on a butterfly wing, powerful

as a secret.

We kissed and drew in water.

Do you remember what I had

said to you, a year before? How could

I not love you? How could I

not? We had just met. You had

a birthmark the shape of Africa

on your chest; my heart had a

void in its vocabulary just the size

of your name. Love is so small. It

could fit into the hole in a bead, the eye

of a needle, and still not seal it.

It's this world that is so huge.

Now our lives feel reduced

to abacuses.

I count the days it will be before

I can see you, you count

the days it's been since I left.

This is a city of rain.

And chaos – I smile to myself,

navigating its corridor-like

streets filled with schoolchildren

hitching yellow autorickshaws, drizzle

flecking their eyelashes, the morning

still not arrived in their eyes.

I lick moisture from my lips

and am sure

I taste salt, a kiss of tears.

Pain only appears in

the presence of love. This much

I can say I have learnt

by heart. Here in this place of

chaos so profound it silences

mine,

I wrap my secrets in skin and

hug them close,

imagine drawing out parabolas

of steel and silk from the centre

of my palm to the

centre of yours, like bridges,

delicate, taut

as the webbing

on a bat's wing,

and wait for you to reach

across the distance and pick

the pieces up, so precise

I could almost taste those

kisses

slippery as our love. Almost

forget how imprecise to desire bringing

shape to a love like water –

profound, perfect, universal.

Nothing else will save us now.

Sharanya Manivannan