Begging for rain

afterwards,

when I am not with you

and you are alone enough

to count the nails in your heart,

tough, and studded like a treasure-house door,

when you arrange your silences

in the vase of an hour,

balancing the bouquet with memories

of hands held,

a spike of laughter

and the colour of my eyes

when you sit within the swell

of your heartbeat

and the purple tide of daydream

laps at the shore of all your selves,

and your skin sings, perfume-pierced

afterwards,

surrender to this thought of me:

as the mimosas of Maharashtra in May

long for monsoon

I long for you;

as the crimson cactus flowers of Thar

long for full moon

I long for you,

and in all my afterwards,

when I am not with you,

my heart turns toward the window of my life

and begs for rain

Gregory “Shantaram” David Roberts