Motley

By Niharika Goswami

Two men walk on a dance floor…

distant away from familiar clamour,

clandestine?

No, perhaps… may be.

Who knows better… if there’s

a supper made of gasoline,

dinner made of fire….

without peach wine,

they matter, breathe love.

Roses conquer the lilies

or otherwise…

Fancy brew, under a dimming moon, or

might be a chandelier too.. sinking.

Beloved, you see?

They sink harder, faster,

build a home as warm as the others.

By Niharika Goswami