Turn Around

By Shreyaa Deori

Summers are becoming needlessly long

in the town I live.

My complain is curious

because I’ve always said

that I’d rather juggle

a melted popsicle

than savour the burn

of hot sweet potatoes.

When I went back home,

one rainy monsoon,

I savoured every pitter,

every patter.

I slept with the windows open

as sprinkles of water

came in through them.

My joy is strange

because for 3 years at a stretch,

I have only cried

about the constant wetness of Shillong.

My mind is the epitome of fickle.

The muscles of my face

begin to twitch

when something overstays their welcome

even by a minute,

illuminating the “not”

on the welcome sign outside my house.

That light has stopped working

ever since you.

If you ever leave,

you have under-stayed your welcome.

If you ever leave,

I am praying for your feet

To turn around.

By Shreyaa Deori