i don’t look at you any more

for i think you’re the same

every day

yet you aren’t, are you

the light falls

differently

the colours carouse

at their own will

there’s purple and pink some day

some day

it’s less orange

sometimes more red than you are in the

mood for

there’s ochre, mocha, and blue

and the shapes?

what are they called

wish i knew

streaks and billows

shimmery peaks

and meadows

lashes of a riotous

unfettered iridescent

paint brush

an arc of red, an orb of fire

a point of turning

so we may return

to the seethe of desire

every day

fluid and changing

as ever unchanging

perhaps you’re a work of art

or perhaps you’re not

need we know?

she walked into the room and said,

did you look at the sunset today?

and i realised

i don’t look at you any more

indrani’s index