grab my hands, put them in your woolen cardigan, hold
them along with yours, let me cry.
Let’s not talk with words, only touch, feel my patchy rough fingers, my skin
dry, moisturize them with your sweat like the dew on
a barren window.
Stop. At the sidewalk? Shall we sit down here for a while, you don’t have
to leave this early. No one
awaits us. We’re the orphans of huge skyscrapers,
our glasses cracked; our throats pierced. Stay,
let me feel again the bobbles in the pockets
of the cardigan, see these blinking streetlights, that’s my heart fluttering,
with every little touch of your fingernails at my skin. These cold chills may affect
my whole body but my
hands are warm. I feel alive. This much warmth is enough
for night, this much warmth is enough
Shaurya Pathania holds a Masters Degree in English Literature from University of Delhi, India. He has a keen interest in poetry, sleep and food. Few of his works have appeared or are forthcoming in Vine Leaves Press, Rising action Review, Synchronized Chaos, Daily Drunk Mag and elsewhere. He can be talked to @shauryapathani4 on Twitter.