I think of our house in India on the tenth floor and

how despite our two bedrooms,

there was never enough distance for you.


Sometimes you sat on the balcony,

a cigarette cupped between your fingers,

as if the smoke would blow me away.


When you were there the pigeons would hover.

You would look out at the buildings, the women in blue.

I despaired over the peckings, the abrupt cut.

You wanted to make it into a story.


I didn’t want you to tell me what they looked like

or if they reminded you of someone else,

I just wanted you to pick them,

they were after all, growing for you.