In that seventh floor Bombay flat,
with the fishing docks below us,
my favourite room was the bathroom.
Here, from your shower
into my window
or maybe through the pipes,
your song slipped in like a letter.
At first, I had hated this damp
place with feathers in the grill.
But after you, I started to hear,
to hear
the blue pigeons
humming and assenting to love
and when you wound and unwound
that one line until it could catch
even
lost
kites,
I saw them push their children off
a ledge
to find flight.
At first, I had hated that chip
in the sink
but on so many nights after,
I filled it to the brim,
and splashed your voice on my face.
For days, my lips could taste tunes
in the salt of the island air.
And now, whenever that line arrives
around my ears
I hear the drumbeats of water
and I feel like drawing
your name
again on wet glass.
with the fishing docks below us,
my favourite room was the bathroom.
Here, from your shower
into my window
or maybe through the pipes,
your song slipped in like a letter.
At first, I had hated this damp
place with feathers in the grill.
But after you, I started to hear,
to hear
the blue pigeons
humming and assenting to love
and when you wound and unwound
that one line until it could catch
even
lost
kites,
I saw them push their children off
a ledge
to find flight.
At first, I had hated that chip
in the sink
but on so many nights after,
I filled it to the brim,
and splashed your voice on my face.
For days, my lips could taste tunes
in the salt of the island air.
And now, whenever that line arrives
around my ears
I hear the drumbeats of water
and I feel like drawing
your name
again on wet glass.
Suchi Govindarajan is a writer and photographer based in Bangalore, India. She is the author of two picture-books for children. Her work has also appeared in many Indian newspapers and magazines. Poetry is her first love, and fiction is her newest. Twitter & Instagram: @suchiswriting.