Maroon

I haven't been reached

in months. My mom shows up in mirrors.

Her cheeks full like roses to plant

my lips against when she wakes. We bunch

under significant razais, paisleys to our mouths. Delhi creeps

in fingers of hearty shaded mist through windows. My dad

likes to leave open the windows. Towel

to his midriff, he seems to be a prisoner, saying,

Every one of you will feel improved when I'm no more,

while going to office, secure drifting, You all

will feel improved when I'm gone, leaving on a Sunday. Moreover, it's genuine,

he seems to be our pet canine. Mother hustling to remind him

of food, of medication. Mother saying, Chodo, chodo!

(Leave it, leave it!) Not the ice! as he scratches a hand

through the cooler. She sits on the bed when he's no more.

Towel to her head, the PC on. I bring a table so she can lift

her head and watch fittingly. The film's

about affection. Red-blue lights spilling on her lap. Smoke,

the chink of ice. Somebody's lips floating over somebody's.

I pull away, let her have at it. Scroll

on my own bed through Facebook. Here is my dear —

we at definitely no point later on talk, or he no more

talks with me. I truly talk with him around evening time

under sheets. He's looking appealing.

Faint tempestuous hair, oversaw facial hair development. Mine

for quite a long time. I truly needed just an ordinary presence

of getting his shirts. Strolling click clack down Khan Market

like my mom for my dad, filtering through the line of tees

on Fabindia stands, the little men's segment.

Without a doubt, even as of now it's the truly bearing I float to like a dead leaf

project on rapids. A short time back I strolled around Opening,

tall life assessed models with long pale hands

besides, an entire evening of men's maroons —

faint maroon, blood maroon, red — I lifted a delicate shirt

ready to move and took it to my own shoulders.

This will look amazing on you, I said. My mom in the mornings

holding the day's shirt up to my dad's chest.