First Crush

The throbbing stars

suds of soap

raised hope

of a shiny night.

Type-cast moon

like a vagabond

stealing light

from the curried glow

of the lamp post.

Rainy noons

and misty nights

take us up the

terrace steps

the drill…

first crush

gooseflesh

breezy chill

the look, the wave

and doe-eyed blush.

The distance

and the soul in it

the speechless talk

the flighty thoughts

that unattended

rolled in it

the puff of air

the cigarette smoke

across the chimney

and road between

the stealth, the flair

unheard, unseen

and oh!

the best friend’s envy.

Come back

and fill

the vacant spot

the curried dot

washed off

since long

and patted smooth

with spotless new

neem-clean buds

'Gin return to me
the vagrant moon

and starry suds.