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My lovers have a strange habit
of leaving things behind as they go
And I,
longing for their touch,
believe them to be gifts
left for me
purposely
between the sheets,
in the cupboard,
on the table,
filling my room
with the aroma
of their sweat,
the touch
of their skin,
the taste
of their tongue:
There is a black nepali cap
which, on a drunken night
shuttled between our heads
till they became one;
A t-shirt
that I borrowed and wore
to work
when mine was too crumpled,
more crumpled than my body;
a pair of shorts,
warmly slipped over my thighs
next to a pool;
an ash tray
which looks like a turtle
as compensation
for the one
that I had made with my own hands,
and which was broken
‘by accident;’
a book
with an old family postcard
when we got submerged in a conversation
and left it on the corner of the night
to find it hanging from the moon
the next morning…