Beige

By Shruti Shah

it’s his smell.

the beige sweatshirt.

the way he lifts it-

the woolen threads get shy.

he pulls me in;

whole of me on his warm chest.

the beige sheltering two souls.

my head pops out

from the piece of cloth

that once

protected his neck alone

now

accomodates two necks

without complaints.

it doesn’t want to

miss two lips rest on each other.

By Shruti Shah