People

By Sreya Sreedas

There are too many kinds of people.

People like fine bone China, people like black ink, quill nibs and parchment.

People like plum and autumn leaves, like dust and broken binding.

People like mirrors, barres and stained pointe shoes, like broken noses, sweat and knuckles.

People like stars, revving and golden sand, like honey and grace.

People like broken glass on velvet, like butterfly wings and wind chimes.

People like lotus seeds, and would flowers. Like dew upon brows, wing beats and a deer's footfalls.

People like tall beer, wooden counters, autumn chill through coats and a tinkle of the bar bell.

People like music and panting, like blades on skin and purple.

People like red water and laboured breaths, like chalk and tears.

People like gold with dried blood, river sand and clear water flooded with sunlight.

People like embers in a caldera, dry winds and hissing fires.

People like denim and road dust, like creamy pages of a dusty book.

People like half remembered dreams and wild winds, like green glass bottles and stormy seas.

People like blood on a steel tables and smiles

People like you and me, darling.

Like star dust, love and kisses melting into unspoken silence of our souls

By Sreya Sreedas