[in a city that's only home when two people are there together]

it's a city of light, but not the kind you'd think. it's the sun setting on the beach, seen over the rim of a steaming cup of chai. its the baking heat, inside of your car, parked out in the sun all day. you want to melt into the synthetic leather, to just boil away until you're free, finally, from the banality of concrete form.

sunday bazaar, halwa puri, driving to nowhere in particular, in a car no-one else would love, with people who'd think they're incapable.

remove yourself, if you will, from your clock-in-clock-out routine, from your eight in the morning stare at a dishevelled stranger in the mirror, from your last few seconds of breath drawn while standing on a trapdoor you're so sure is going to be pulled out from beneath you, from your lonely silent stare across the rooftops, from your alone-in-a-crowded-room selfcondemned sentence, from your breathless run to the end of escape, and see the light.