Abound

flakes of dry eyeliner appear on my fingertips as i brush them across my face, warm against the early afternoon sun seeping through my sheer curtains, and eye sockets dry with yesterday's contact lenses still in them. over the clink of my bangles and the hum of nearby construction work, i hear your steady breathing. i wonder if i snore in my sleep. and i wonder if you heard them.

for breakfast i dip instant tea in lukewarm water for us. it is almost an hour past noon yet i stir the jaggery into the golden brown liquid, remembering a conversation we had in that first month, blooming and true. "tea person or coffee person?" i asked. with unblinking eyes you replied tea, you couldn't help it if you tried. 

your slow breaths bring me back to the winter of the year before the last, to your moist and shaky palms and the thin black cross around my neck. the raised hair of my nape as your tender flesh settled beside the rough, worn thread. 

in the harsh midday heat your bare arms glisten in your sleep and the side of your face pushes into my pillow. i notice your unmoving sleeping mouth and think of how i followed the soft voice it wields like a prayer last monsoon. the unending rain and my few hours of sleep when i dreamt of everyone but you.

during those first months your hands were always in your pockets and your back was always concealed by your wool-lined jacket, and my gaze was always lowered. i wondered what you wanted to hide so bad. and i hoped you wondered why i didn't look at you.