Artwork by Maanvi Kapur
At night,
we dangled our faith on
the edge of a teacup.
The dream was to find
the quiet depth of
history in the dark.
Look how the country hangs
from our teeth, how our
wet hair spills rain into streets.
I fear language born
out of the untethered-
tea-scalded faith,
the torn shreds of this city
pilfering sunshine,
the heartbroken priestess,
infidel gods.
Tonight, I took my time with all my stories.
Here we sat, on tall
old buildings,
between bleeding walls
and dubious silence,
our faces wearing the
same shape as the day this
city was torn down,
our words rattling from thievish winds,
but the world below us was warm.
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