On a Sunday morning before your waking hour
by KUNAL SETH
He walked out leaving a phone twist by your side
The curves and curls saying it all
You straighten them to resolve
But loops of the moments never go straight
23 clocks you counted them everyday
Before he would call and say hey!
Every time he would trigger a heart bit skip
You will complete a circle with your finger tip
And then would wonder with a smile
That how he knows you best
How he reaches that point hidden from the rest.
Your fingers dancing finishing practiced ballroom dances
The forefinger and the black coil partners of circumstance
Tirelessly swaying to your talking tunes
While you sing, “sing me”
You hold onto it like an anchor on anxious seas
You are held by it like on a leash that stops that loose streak
It controls the predictable instincts
These black strings tie you together and they separate you too
You are far away birds migrating in different plains
These phone twists have unlocked the nerves and made them speak
There are limitations that now have debated their stand
A phone ring, you are connected again to him
A promise well kept fast broken at a whimsical reason
Silence painted again mistaken for treason.
-In the age of cell phones a landline conversation experience is like a vintage touch from another world..