Clueless Ink

For Her, Like a Girl from the ’60s

When she falls in love,
the world goes quiet.
Everything fades,
except the feeling,
All bare.

Her eyes fill with curiosity.
Goosebumps rise,
like her body’s asking,
how did you take me back
to when gravity was no science?

Back to the black-and-white films her parents loved,
when love was in the air.
They slow-danced to Lata Mangeshkar,
breathing it in,
adding colors to it,
without a single care.

Like:
when bodies touch,
they don’t just meet,
they melt,
they blend,
like tea in hot water,
so sweet.

With steam and scent,
warm and honest heat,
the colour deepens,
rich and strong,
yet bittersweet.

Now reds mix with yellow,
now, bright, burning orange.
They still slow dance,
burning, blending,
caught in a beautiful cage.

But if she’s betrayed,
she turns red.
Everything shuts down,
her body says no more,
without a frown,
like a butterfly retreating
to her cocoon,
to this liar’s tune.

Now she’s full.
Now she’s fed.
No indulging.
Just red.

Her mind sways,
away from the black-and-white films her parents once said.
Love and intimacy
suddenly feel gloomy,
without colour, without air,
like dancing in the rain
was always a hundred umbrellas away.

So now,
she keeps her mind for herself,
her thoughts, her own.
Not shaped by them,
just hers alone.

In red, yellow, and blue,
pure and unmixed,
just true,
not a reflection of anyone,
but her,

and the memories of a few.