Alone with my friends

The day was colder than most,

Barely lit with broken pieces of sunlight.

I sat on my terrace alone.

My terrace, peopled with my friends.

Jasmine, Vinca, Rose and Petunia,

Just to name a few.

I sat in silence,

Hoping to read Gitanjali again.

The silence however,

Was trampled upon,

By the cooing of doves.

I left Tagore in the care of marigolds,

In favour of the cooing culprits.

I saw doves, of an unspoken colour,

Sauntering about with a regal nonchalance.

And a pair of chirping sparrows,

Fiddling among the branches of hibiscus.

They talked for ages,

Or I stood there far too long.

Their words were shapeless,

Reminding me of a distant song.

Noon slipped by,

In the guise of evening.

The sound of azaan brought with it,

Cold winds from the Shivaliks.

Chrysanthemums hummed,

With the beat of the wind.

Pink, white and yellow,

Each colour its own music.

Jasmine yawned.

A lonesome butterfly lay inebriated

On chattering petunias.

Gitanjali sat quietly,

Unopened on the mat.

As Tagore and I stood fixated,

On the miracles of monotony.

He was painting the scene.

I was writing it.

I stole a glimpse of his canvas.

He, my diary.

Both were empty.

Both infinite.