Too tired to play a love song–
the strings on this violin must be sick.
Pizzicato, pizzicato. Pestering
the soundscape. Some days are for sitting
in bed arguing– the toilet flushes.
Your roommate must be sick
of us on the verge of breaking up and
throwing too much of ourselves against
the wall. The bang-bang-bling to distract
ourselves– we contract ourselves to another
week, at least. Then the same: four
bland walls and our muted voices
pestering the soundscape of
what we used to call Paradise.
(originally published in Setu, Summer 2020)