To Tell Tall Tales

The all too familiar experience shared by expats as they step out of the airport into the Motherland's arms. The intoxicatingly familiar scent  Wafting through the air--  Spices, antiquity, progress, poverty,  And a hint of of putrid sweetness.  The world is a blurry sweep of colours, motion,  and the voids in between.  I take in a lungful of this carbon lined breath.  Oh, how I have missed this daily dose of pollution; Oh how I have suffocated in that clean foreign air.

Photo credit: AP Photo/Altaf Qadri Brick kiln chimneys stuck, into the bosom of the country soil; Like enormous incense sticks, smoking in veneration, Rising from a clump of Ganges clay. Such is the soil this earth is made of; Such are the bricks our walls are made of. ---One from the archives (circa 2006-07) Photo credit:  Match Sùmàyà on Unsplash

Photo by Lubo Minar on Unsplash I stand next to you As we take our daily stroll  In the quiet unspoken comfort Of conversations of the soul The heady magnolia scent Wafts through the Pine; This is our daily pause, Our sojourn, yours and mine. We are neighbors now that I live On the street where you stay; Only, it is my tomorrow, And, it is your yesterday.

Photo by Dimitri Bong on Unsplash Like the habit you so crave, I long for a drag, at your lips.