crumbling kites

There was a pink moon,

that other night , which stole her seconds away.

Tick tick went the watch on her wrist.

But time wouldn’t budge.

Where had it gone?

The staleness of stagnation, she could sniff.

The hopeless drifter was

caught in the doldrums.

No wind to drift away into.

The sun came once that night,

to knock the pink dew off the moon’s cheeks.

And down it fell.

Like crumbling paper after

a hundred and seven kites got stuck

on the lone tamarind tree on that crater.

As the sun blew ,

crepe paper floated , flew, and settled down,

like a myriad magic carpets,

on the roadside curb,

on the edges of vulnerable minds,

and on a footpath that now crunched

with the sound of the crumpled pink,

torn hearts and worn out soles.

She walks.

She always does.

Along this vulnerable edge,

balancing on the yellow and black curb stones,

hands unconsciously reaching out,

fingers stretching out

like antennae trying desperately

to catch a signal,

hovering in the air, so clear and elusive.

A lost footing.

A crunch onto the crisp carpet,

her toes are now tickled by torn edges,

teased by the grass blades .

Hagard old brown petals ,

shorn of their rouge and youth,

cut into her skin,

like old empty vestiges of Broadway divas,

now orphaned and hurting.

The soles come off ,

bare foot, she trots,

crunching and stepping over

every oncoming hope of salvage.

The pink will destroy her.

Consume her.

Expurgate her.

her fingers now bleed pink.

As she touches the dew drop on her eyelid,

the sky splashes into rose and ice candy

The sun sets in her eyes,

a Monet storm raging through them.

And she hums, strumming a long lost tune ,

Across the two hundred miles of kite strings

that lie in between her and a few lonely kites ,

crumbling by the day, fading in pink,

Left behind ,

because they wouldn’t let go of the tamarind tree,

So easily .