Questions by my Morning Latte

There are questions that I have scribbled on the tissue paper lying on this coffee table:

Words that scrimmage with the numbers in the sealed boxes that I have built inside my head,

Alongside the scaffolding and barricades that scurry past the rivers of obliterated dreams.

The flowers that I pluck from the stories burrowed in these grounds that placate my rage are crushed and bitten away by the concrete,

But the slow trains- steady and quiet- draw caricatures of the shimmers of past lives;

They somehow meander like the butterflyfish in the sea I dove into at nightfall,

And like the grim star shine broadening over the mountains.

I listen to the music of my mistakes-

The symphony that binds my hopes and my regrets,

And the treading harp strings over the muddy powder that I have sprinkled atop my blunders.

I watch as they duel for space but settle in time,

And the whiff of coffee hushes the music like a gritty alarm.

The bicycle outside the café is a stationery memory on the footpath,

And I blow the tissue across the drudgery of haphazardly parked extravagant cars,

Till it lands inside the pink basket of the bicycle and soaks in the scorching sun rays.

I walk away from the scathing jeers that I drink in my morning caffè latte,

The blisters of my nightmares that I sight on the turnstile,

The grudge of thriving boulders that shake my hands and hug me for selfish sympathy,

And the jars of wood laden with my silent tears.

I walk like a maple leaf on the dewy grass

Beside the girl who trudges with her punctured bicycle;

She takes me home and tucks me to bed, and presses my palm with all the answers to my questions.

She is the wind clasped in the curtains, 

Till she whispers that she is me;

And I watch as she dims my gaze

And slips into my dreams-

Where I can be sure of who I am-

I am just who I love to be.

~ Riddhi Chakraborty

Notes: is it ironic that i write about morning musings at late night?